


Linden

by clemementine



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friendship, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Self Confidence Issues, Threats of Violence, troubadours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27872374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clemementine/pseuds/clemementine
Summary: In an enormous castle, Crown Prince George dreams of another life, far from the bustle and responsibility of his. On any roads, of any country, Clay and his band of troubadours bring joy and laughter to anyone who will listen, living free and joyous. But both find themselves missing something, or maybe someone, even while having everything.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound, GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Wilbur Soot, JustaMinx & Eret, Quackity & Jschlatt & Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot - Relationship, philza - Relationship
Comments: 26
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1: Our Song

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, this is a retelling of one of my favorite stories, with some of my favorite characters. Don't ship real people, only their personas! I hope you like it, and thanks for reading! :P

Clay stared at the bright blue sky above him, idly strumming his guitar. The tune was soft, familiar something he’d been working on for most of his life. Clay wasn’t sure where he’d heard it, or if he’d made it up, but he’d always known it. In his head, the clouds began swirling into vivid images of palaces, dragons, and kings. The branches of trees occasionally slid across his vision. Dappled sunlight warmed Clay to his very bones. He let his eyes fall closed, the images now playing on his eyelids in even brighter shades of blue and red. The smell of linden trees and the rain from the early morning filled his senses. He paused his tune to eat a red berry from an open pouch, spitting the seed out, not caring where it landed. Clay was sure he’d never been more at peace. This thought lasted only a moment before the wagon hit a large hole, causing it to shudder violently. Clay opened his eyes, rubbing where he’d hit his head, and propped himself up.

  
“Sorry, sorry,” Came a shout from below him. Clay peered over the edge, looking directly at the top of a green and white hat. He dropped a berry down, smacking the man’s shoulder.

  
“What do you want?” The man said, without turning.

  
“Drive better, Phil.” Clay said. He could practically hear Phil rolling his eyes.

  
“What’s that you’ve been playing? It’s nice.” Phil asked.

  
“It’s nothing, just a… folk song from my home.” Said, Clay. Phil nodded silently, ignoring the blatant lie, turning his attention back to their mule, Rosetta.

  
The dirt road stretched out before them for miles, occasionally swinging around trees or up and over creeks. As far as Clay could see, they were the only people around, though the signs of life were plain to see in the well-worn grooves of the road. He could hear birds twittering in the trees, the wind blowing gently through the grass, and the rest of his companions arguing about some silly thing in the carriage below. Clay lifted his guitar again, strumming the beginning of their favorite song;

  
“There is nothing better in the whole world,” He sang. Phil, being the only other member outside of the wagon, caught on first.

  
“Then to roam with friends all over like the bird.” Phil chimed in. From the deep pockets of his coat, he pulled a harmonica, joining Clay’s guitar. Clay began singing loudly, banging out a beat with his heel, which caught the attention of his companions. Nick, the youngest of them all, shoved himself out of the window, joining Clay at the chorus with a grin. He could hear Karl and Wilbur shouting along, the sounds of their trumpet and guitar echoing around them. Clay grinned as Nick cupped his mouth, screaming the last few lines for anyone to hear. They were all laughing, loudly, as they finished the song, Phil rounding them out with the harmonica. Nick twisted so that he could see Clay.

  
“How are you up there, dreamer?”

  
“All good here, you?”

  
“I’m great, but some fool drank all of our wine!” Nick said, making a motion to the inside of the wagon.

  
“Shut up, don’t act like you didn’t help.” Clay heard Wilbur snap, playfully. There was a flurry of motion, and Nick screamed, suddenly held in the wagon only by his knees. His cloth headband floated dangerously close to the large wooden wheels as he hung, laughing. It wasn’t clear if Wilbur had pushed him or if Nick had just lost his grip on the wagon’s side. Nick let his fingers drag along the path, making their own tiny dust trail.

  
“If you all break the wagon, I’m not chopping a single tree down to fix it.” Said Phil, his voice tinged with humor, but they all knew he was serious. Grunting, Nick used an immense amount of core strength and swung up, grabbing the hand Clay extended.

  
“And stay out!” Karl shouted, his voice betraying his intoxication. Clay saw Karl’s hands waving out the window as he helped push Nick up and out of the wagon onto its roof. Nick was only wearing one boot, which made Clay raise his eyebrow quizzically. Nick just shrugged at Clay, not bothering to explain his lack of shoes. He flopped down, taking up most of the space on the roof with his arms. From somewhere Nick produced a flask, which Clay took when offered. The alcohol warmed his chest as he stretched down next to Nick, eyes again fixing on the swirling clouds. Yes, he thought, this was perfect.

  
\----------

  
George glared at the mirror. Around him bustled a dozen people, all too intimidated to make eye contact with him, all with the one goal of making him presentable. George despised them all. He didn’t want to be presentable. George didn’t want to have to dress up and impress some ditzy princess for political gain. He didn’t want to marry one, either.

  
He thought about when he had first realized how different he was from everyone else. George had been nine, staring out a palace window, imagining another life, when he’d noticed a bunch of the servant’s children playing ball in the grass below. He recalled how excited he’d gotten, ripping off his crown and cape, sprinting down the stone steps and out into the grass.  
“Hey!” He’d yelled, beaming and waving at the children. “Can I play?”

  
He then remembered how their faces had fallen, how they’d exchanged looks before one of the older kids told him they were actually about to go back into town, that he’d been too late. George had believed them, begging to join them, but they’d shut him down. He recalled hearing them giggle behind his back as he sullenly went back inside, trying to ignore the sounds of them continuing the game as he left. That night, as he was tucked into bed by his favorite nanny, Julia, he’d asked why they wouldn’t play with him.

  
“Little prince,” Julia had explained, “They don’t play the way you do _—_ Princes play with swords, not bats and balls. They aren’t like you.”

  
“Then I don’t want to be like me!” George had shouted. Julia had laughed, tucked him in tighter, and promised he’d grow into it.

  
George never did grow into his role. Sure, he could certainly look and act as a crown prince should and he knew the topics a crown prince should know. Yet, every night George would find himself staring out of his window, dreaming of someone who would sweep him off his feet and take him away. He would drown himself in books telling of miraculous adventures, with monsters, and bandits, and princesses in towers.

  
“Your Highness?” George slid his eyes away from the mirror.

  
“Yes?” He said cooly.

  
“Your father is asking to see you before Princess Justa arrives.” The servant said.

  
“Send him in.” George waved his arm, making his sleeves wiggle, “Are we done here?”

  
“Oh, yes, Your Highness, yes,” The servants and tailors scrambled to get their bags and leave. George watched them with ice in his stomach, hating how people tried so frantically to leave him alone. They had dressed him in a dashing blue tuxedo. It had gorgeous embroidered flowers on the vest in the thinnest gold George thought he’d ever seen. He had to admit that he looked good. His dark hair was more pronounced in contrast to the blue; even the jewels in his crown looked more vibrant. There was a bang on the door, and the King entered, sweeping his cape behind him.

  
“George! You look quite handsome, just like your father, no?” As he said this, the King grabbed George up in a bone-crushing hug.  
“Thank you.”

  
“King Eret and his daughter will be here soon.” The King said. George nodded. “Are you excited to meet her? I’ve heard she’s got many suitors, so she must be quite beautiful.”

  
“Yes, I am.” George lied.

  
“Good, good, a union between our two nations would make us unstoppable.” Said the King, more to himself than George. He loudly continued scheming as he wandered about George’s dressing room, picking up all of George’s things, looking at them, and putting them back down in the wrong places. George stood in the center, cringing as his father spoke. He didn’t want to marry Justa. He didn’t want to marry a royal at all.

  
It was the bells that first alerted the King and George that their visitors were within city limits. From every church, starting at the farthest reaches of civilization, came the sound of enormous bells ringing as the royal procession passed. The King eagerly grabbed George by the shoulders, marching them both down to the great hall. Together they sat in their enormous gilded thrones, which George thought were enormously gaudy.

  
The great hall had been extravagantly decorated. On the left stone wall was a gargantuan fireplace, which was supporting a massive fire. Above it was an elaborate wooden overmantle. It had been carved by the finest woodworkers in the land, using seventeen different kinds of wood. George had spent most of his life staring at the stories it told, and still, he was sure he had missed some tiny detail. The right wall held six colossal stained glass windows depicting the legacies of ancestors. Metalworkers had created beautiful flora and fauna molding to encircle each pane. Two temporary thrones had been brought in, one large one for King Eret and a smaller one for his daughter. The smaller one had been placed next to George's, which made him groan internally. Above the thrones hung a sizable coat of arms, bearing George’s family crest.

  
George could hear the doors opening to Eret’s carriage. He could hear muted voices as the royal party disembarked. His father reminded him to sit up straight, the mammoth-sized wooden doors swung open, and there she was. She was blindingly elegant, but George couldn’t help but feel unbearable hopelessness bubbling in his stomach as they met eyes.


	2. Chapter 2: Her Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay sleeps on a riverbank, while George meets someone important

“Right, so, if we can get to the Capitol in a few days, this should be enough." Phil mused, turning over their gold pieces as he thought. “And, I heard a rumor that the Capitol has got a visiting nation. I bet the crowds will be eager to impress.”

When the sun began falling dangerously close to the horizon and staining the sky with blood-red, the troubadours had located a clearing by a small river and set up camp. Phil had tied Rosetta to a tree, giving her enough slack to graze in the surrounding foliage. Intrigued, Wilbur had approached the water, observing it for only a few seconds before determining it to be excellent fishing water and disappearing to get his rod. Nick and Karl set up a crackling fire and now lounged next to it, exchanging their best pick-up lines. 

Clay hummed in agreement as he studied the paper map before him, trying to find the quickest route. They would have to move quickly, and there would be no time to stop for extra supplies if they wanted to make it before the visiting royals left. Clay tracked a path with his finger before smudging it down with a small piece of coal. 

“What do you think of this?” He asked, turning the map to the more experienced traveler.

“That should be fine. As long as we keep pace through this bit here, the ground gets marshy,” Phil replied. The coins clattered against themselves and various nicknacks as Phil tucked them into his coat pockets, eyes still glued to the map. 

Clay’s stomach growled loudly, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced up at the fire, frowning, as it was still distinctly barren of fish. Straightening out his long limbs, Clay rose slowly from his spot by Phil. Cracking his back and knees, Clay wandered over to where Wilbur sat silently. His eyes were trained, with alarming intensity, on rapidly shifting water. The fish danced, teasing, around Wilbur’s fishing line. Their scales reflected silver, red, and yellow as if the sunset had been brought to life. 

There was no better fisherman than Wilbur, Clay thought, standing by his silent friend. Wilbur always knew the exact moment to bring his line in, knew where the fish would be, and what they would want to bite. Sometimes his intensity worried Clay, reminding him of someone possessed. 

“Any luck, Wilby?” Clay asked, softly. 

“Not yet,” Wilbur said, his voice hardly a whisper. The fishing line twitched. “The fish require peace and serenity, not loud flirting.” 

Despite his comment, the line gave an enormous shudder. He grabbed it up, whispering in a foreign language as he gave the line drag. In an instant, he yanked the line back, spinning the reel inhumanly fast. As the line emerged from the water, a large, red-ish, fish came with it. Wilbur let out a soft curse, swiftly cutting through the line and releasing it. 

“Hey! That looked like a good one!” Clay protested, watching the red flash dart off downstream. Wilbur shook his head as he attached another hook to his broken line. 

“No. I don’t eat salmon.” Said Wilbur. 

Shaking his head, Clay turned back up the bank. Nick and Karl seemed to have become bored with pick-up lines. Instead, Karl was practicing a new card trick, making Nick hoot when he produced the wrong ones. The pair were sat by the fire, which Nick was occasionally prodding with his bare hands, unfazed when sparks landed on his calloused skin. Karl noticed Clay watching and called him over, explaining that the trick was only going wrong due to the lack of an audience. Indeed, it seemed, with Clay watching, Karl was able to manipulate the cards seamlessly, presenting several other equally confounding tricks. 

Eventually, when Wilbur seemed satisfied with his catch; he joined them at the fire. Phil, also, left the map and came to eat. They passed the time, singing, telling jokes, and eating the grainy fish. Nick kept the fire blazing well into the night, showing off his own talent by juggling some of the flaming wood. Above them, the sky melted from red to a dark blue, stars emerging one after the other until they practically covered it. The smoke from their fire curled up towards the moon, reaching the treetops before dissipating into the night.

Nick fell asleep first, soon followed by Phil and Karl. Wilbur retreated to the woods— he always said it was too bright and warm by the fire to sleep. Alone now, Clay couldn’t help but latch his eyes to the sky. It took a few minutes, but soon the stars began shifting into traceable lines, the stories in his head manifesting into images, soothing him into sleep. From the darkness of the trees, Wilbur's soft voice floated out, singing a sad-sounding song in the same foreign language. The only thing Clay could understand of the words was the name of a long-dead nation, though he had no idea why Wilbur would be singing about it. In some dark recess of his chest, Clay felt a deep longing stir as he listened to the trickling words, but he pushed it down, closing his eyes. 

\---------

Princess Justa’s eyes locked onto George, and he suddenly felt like a prey animal. She walked with all the grace a princess should, smiling softly, as she greeted lesser nobles, though, there was nothing soft about the energy she commanded. George could hardly take his eyes off of her. Maybe this is what his father had been talking about maybe; this is what love felt like. He doubted that love would leave you feeling so miserably naked, but what did he know. 

George was so distracted watching Justa that he nearly jumped when King Eret came to shake his hand. At least now he could see where Justa got her intensity from; Eret was watching him with the exact same analytical gaze. George’s stomach dropped as he fought the urge to run out of the hall. Justa was quick behind her father, shaking his hand tightly. Her lips curled into an amused smile as she did, George could only muster a wince. She swirled down into the seat next to him, George only then noticing the intricacies of her dress. It was purple, covered in taffeta and glitter, and looked so seamlessly tightened to her skin that George was confident she was not breathing. He doubted someone could be comfortable wearing a dress like that, though Justa seemed totally at ease. George figured maybe he was being overdramatic. 

All he had to do was survive until dinner. At dinner, he could fake a stomach bug and escape to his room. This thought gave George some comfort, but not nearly enough to put him at ease. 

After a long series of formal greetings, George and Justa were excused to the gardens while their fathers launched into talk of politics. George stood and extended his hand to Justa politely. Together they walked out of the great hall into the large corridor. Justa turned abruptly to George. 

“Is there a bathroom nearby?” She asked. George pointed towards it, blushing. As he watched her leave, George wondered if he should follow her, to make positive she found it. Instead, he opted to just stand and fidget with his sleeves. By the time she returned George had unraveled most of the hem on his right arm. He looked up and did a double-take. In Justa’s right hand was her dress, crumpled into a purple ball. She wore a baggy male maid uniform instead, where she got it George couldn’t fathom. 

“You can call me Minx," She said, extending her arm to shake his hand. George did, in shocked silence. “Oh, seriously, these dresses are bloody uncomfortable. I’ll change back before dinner. No one will be the wiser.” 

“R-right,” George stammered. 

“Is there anywhere I can leave this?” Asked Minx, motioning to her dress.“This place is pretty big; there must be somewhere.” 

“Yeah, follow me.” 

He led Minx up the nearest staircase, winding them up to the top of one of the tallest towers in the castle, right to his bedroom. 

“Oi, this is a bit forward George.” Said Minx, George nearly tripped over his carpet.

“No—”

“I’m kidding. Lighten up. You look like you’re about to fall apart.” Minx laughed. She observed his room with a keen eye, not touching anything but seeing everything, and dropped her dress onto his large bed. Tucking her hands into the pockets of her uniform, she turned back to George.

“Are you gonna show me around now?"

“Yes, um, this way, I’ll show you the libraries.” Minx nodded and followed him out. They talked awkwardly about the weather and traveling as they walked, though George doubted Minx could be described as awkward. The princess seemed to be confident and comfortable talking about anything. 

“—then the romantics are over here." George was saying, pointing at bookcases, when Minx suddenly interrupted him.

“What do you do for fun here?” She asked. George blinked. Fun? This  _ was _ what he did for fun. Minx seemed to realize this at the same moment. “Right, yeah, of course. It's just… Do you ever leave the castle?”

“No, I'm the prince. I only leave if I’m needed,” George said, he was confused. He had always assumed that a princess would be far more confined than a prince. 

“Lame. Dad lets me go out all the time.” Minx walked to the window, gazing out over the city, “I bet we could leave right now, and no one would know for hours.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, just act confident you can get away with anything.” 

“I’m not sure that's a good idea,” George said, hesitantly. Of course, he wanted to leave, but he worried that he might never come back if he left without his father knowing. 

“Fine, fine, I bet there’ll be some traveling acts coming through, if I arrange a royal visit,” Minx made a face when she said this. “We can all go. One big, happy, arranged, family.” 

“Okay, I guess.” George wondered if this was Minx’s way of asking him on a date. Embarrassed that she had beat him to the question, George launched back into talking about the books they had in the library. 

Miraculously, George was able to keep up with Minx as she traversed the castle until dinner. They parted ways at the staircase, Minx explaining she was going to go get changed into a dinner gown, as well as grab her dress from earlier. Before she left though, Minx passed a maid who was hurrying past with a stack of towels. 

“You employ some hot women, George,” Minx said, watching the woman disappear behind a corner. George was totally stunned, but Minx bounced up the staircase without a second thought. 

“Do you know where you’re going?” He called. George flinched as she yelled that she did. 

Minx was nice enough, but George didn't care to imagine a life with her. He didn’t want war, either, but he foolishly hoped that the political conversations had gone poorly, that their parents had decided against a union. The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and King emerged. His cheeks were red from the heat of the fire, and his eyes shone with a marveling light. 

“George! There you are. Where is Justa?” 

“She’s getting changed.” 

“Of course, well, you go on ahead to dinner. We will be there soon. Eret and I are making big moves!” From inside the hall, Eret yelled his agreement. George turned and rushed away. His eyes stung, but he was not exactly sure why. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the kudos! i pinky promise our boys will meet soon! be sure to kudos if u enjoy :P


	3. Chapter 3: Their Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay meets a stranger in the city.

Rope burned Clay's hands as he strapped down the wagon. Nick whistled as he stamped down the fire from that morning, covering the embers with silt from the riverbank. It had taken them less than an hour to get packed up, their respective tasks having been established years ago. Clay knocked on the wagon, signaling Phil that he start navigating Rosetta back to their path, and climbed inside. The wagon lurched into motion, Nick jumping onto its side at the last moment. He pulled the door open as it moved and swung inside, dropping down next to Karl, who was fidgeting with his playing cards. Tree branches smacked methodically against the windows, early morning sun flashing in between the trunks. 

  
Wilbur’s nose was shoved deep into a book he had bought in the last town they’d stopped in. In his other hand, he held an enormous, steaming, mug of coffee, which despite being full, Wilbur was keeping completely steady. Clay was thankful for this, he was pressed tightly against Will, and the last thing he needed in the morning was a crotch-full of scalding coffee.  
The sound of shuffling cards drew his attention back to Karl, whose eyes were still locked out the window. Karl’s hands were flicking through the deck with increasing intensity. Periodically, he’d present intricate fans, or send the cards flying in tiny arcs. 

  
Karl had, originally, been part of a different band of traveling performers as an assistant. But, despite having joined them over a year ago, he still had the nervous energy of someone who was not truly convinced they belonged. Clay had first noticed him tucked away, in the corner of a dark pub, scamming the regulars with a cheap cup trip. They’d got to talking after Clay pointed out the gimmick, and Karl had ultimately proved himself to be a much more adept magician. Impressed, Clay had brought Karl to dinner that night, where he had even managed to wow Phil. One thing led to another, and they’d left the city with a new member. It was Nick who had taken a particular liking to Karl and had begged the hardest to let him join the group. This was evidently still true, as Clay watched him snuggle up against Karl, yawning so dramatically he nearly knocked Wilbur’s mug out of his hand. 

  
Clay took this as his cue to leave and, at the first opportunity, clambered back onto the roof. Karl moved his cards to one hand and passed Clay’s guitar up to him through the window, as Clay liked to compose with the sky as his ceiling.

  
Scenery passed by steadily, the meadows melting into a vast marsh. The trees seemed to lengthen until Clay was barely able to see the clouds. Vines hung haphazardly, and roots cut across the path like fingers. Rosetta had to travel slowly to avoid stepping into the softer ground. After one too many close calls involving his head and several, particularly, thick vines, Clay was forced to join the others inside of the wagon. 

  
Wilbur had long ago finished his coffee and had traded out his book to furiously scribble in one of his notebooks. Karl, too, seemed to have grown bored of his cards and was now making a coin vanish and reappear in escalating bizarre locations. Nick was partially paying attention to Karl’s coin, partially pleading with him to make his move on the paper battleship board they had drawn. Just as Clay was getting situated next to Wilbur, the wagon shuddered to a stop. Phil tugged the tiny driver's window open and bent to speak.   
“Do you smell rain?” He asked. Clay opened the door slightly, smelling the air. 

  
“I don’t know, maybe?” Said Nick, mimicking the sniffing motion. 

  
Phil made a grunt, pulling the window closed. 

  
“That'll scuff us.” He said as did, to no one in particular. 

  
Luckily, the weather held. They were able to make it to the outskirts of the Capitol in record speed, stopping only when they absolutely had to. Houses began popping up more and more frequently, as did other carts. Soon, every time Clay looked outside he saw people bustling about. How different this view was to what he’d woken up to. Rationally, Clay knew that people meant money, and money meant survival, but he hated the cities. Dust weaseled its way in through the cracks in the wagon, making his eyes burn and his throat close. Outside, vendors announced their wares, and boys holding newspapers shouted the day's events.   
  
Clay always felt like he didn’t belong in cities. Even growing up, his father had kept them moving from farm to farm as he searched for work. Clay had never known just one home, sleeping under the stars more nights than not. 

  
Phil stopped the wagon outside of a large inn. They clambered out to where he stood, surveying the street. 

  
“I’ll go rent us a room, you all be back by morning,” Phil said. Wilbur was the first to melt into the crowd, though Clay could still see his tall head weaving around people. Even though Phil dealt with their group funds, each member kept a large percentage of their earnings for their own use. Though, usually, they wound up spending their money on things to better their performances regardless. Nick and Karl vanished next, Nick needing to buy more alcohol for his fires, and Karl who was hoping to earn a few coins at the first pub he saw. Clay stood awkwardly by the wagon, unsure of what to do with himself. He didn’t need to buy any supplies, or to hustle people. Thankfully, Phil seemed to pick up on his anxieties, ducking into the wagon and pulling out large poster paper with their cartoonish faces drawn on it. 

  
“Go hang these up near the castle.” He said. Mutely, Clay nodded, taking the posters. Phil also passed him a sticky tub of glue. “And, see if you can chat up some rich-looking passerbys.” 

  
Just like that, Clay was alone, Phil marching into the inn. He felt awkward with the large posters, people kept glancing up from their lives, shooting him questioning looks. Clay took a steadying breath and set off for the looming castle. The cobblestone was uncomfortable under his feet as he hurried from lamp post to lamp post. Glue stuck between his fingers, and the summer sun made sweat drip down his nose. 

  
Clay found the process of pasting the posters quite satisfying, the small brush made funny noises as he dragged it up and down the paper. He didn’t recognize the ad; Wilbur must have drawn it up when Clay wasn’t looking. It was good work, each of their faces stuck in permanent smiles, their acts lit up behind them. Cards flew around Karls's head, an eye floating above Phil. Nick grinned maniacally amid a roaring blaze, and Wilburs instruments hung like a halo. Clay was posed at the top of the circle with various gymnastics equipment scattered about him. The dates were written in large black letters below them all. The show was guaranteed to be packed. 

  
The castle’s walls suddenly appeared in front of him, reaching up to the heavens with jarring intensity. Clay felt very small as he stood at their base, trying to see into the castle above them. He was debating if he should put a poster on them when he felt a tap on the shoulder. Glancing behind him revealed an alarmingly pretty girl, dressed in shabby men's clothing. Despite her appearance, Clay had a sneaking suspicion that she was someone important, from the way people were now gawking at him, instead of passing glances. 

  
“Are you a showman?” She asked. 

  
“Yes.” 

  
“Which one are you?” She pointed at the faces on the poster.

"Oh," Clay stammered and pointed. "I'm Dream."

"And what do you do, Dream?" The girl leaned in to inspect where Clay held his finger. Her long hair swung around her shoulders, wafting an almost sickeningly sweet smell into his face.

  
“Gymnastics, but my partners do fire breathing, magic, and fortune-telling.” He said.

  
“Brilliant. When are you performing?” She stood straight again, eyes glowing intensely. 

  
“Tomorrow.” 

  
“Even better.” She took a few paces away before whipping back as if remembering something. “I expect a good show, I’m bringing a friend who’s a little… he's a bit of a hermit, so make it special.” 

  
Clay gave her a charming smile and thumbs up as a response. He was about to go back to his debate when the girl began shouting at him again.

  
“Oh, and, don’t do what you’re thinking.” She yelled, gesturing at the wall. Clay went red, embarrassed that he was that easy to read, nodded, and hurried back in the direction he thought the inn was. 

  
His thought was, put plainly, distinctly wrong, and he quickly found himself completely turned about. Needing help, Clay wracked his brain for the name of the inn, but for the life of him, nothing popped up. Helplessness bubbled in his throat, followed by the acidic taste of fear. Frantically he searched for something familiar, a building, a stone, hell even a beggar would do.   
Weight slammed down on his shoulder and Clay ducked down, letting the person roll over him to the ground. 

  
“Not cool.” Nick wheezed. Behind them, Karl was doubled over laughing. 

  
“I told you that wasn’t a good idea,” He choked. 

  
Clay helped Nick up, cursing him out softly for the scare. Nick explained that they’d been leaving a bar and saw him standing, in Nick’s words, like a chicken in a butcher's shop. As they walked back home, Karl eagerly showed off the money he made, bouncing giddily when he spoke. Clay kept his arm draped casually over Nick's shoulder, pretending to support him, but they both knew it was calming him down. 

  
That night, when everyone had returned, Wilbur with an armful of new novels, Clay told them about the girl he’d met. After giving him an earful of flirting tips, everyone promised to perform their best work. They began going over their script and ques, rehearsing them even though they knew it by heart. When the street lamps were lit, they drew straws to decide who got to sleep on the tiny metal cot in the corner of the room, resulting in one very joyous Karl. Grumbling, the losers laid their bedrolls out on the floor. Silence fell, and its sister, sleep, soon crept in, knocking them out one by one, until Clay was alone, sitting at the bay window. Smoke filled the air, stamping out the stars. Even at night people still scuttered about, like hoards of ants. Clay fixated on them, tracing patterns in their paths until the people became pictures and the pictures, stories. But the stories were boring, brown, and muddled. Instead, Clay’s eyes drifted up to the flickering lights in the windows of the castle. He imagined the people inside its walls, dressed in frivolous tassels, living confined lives full of bureaucracy, and good food. The twinkling lights did remind Clay of the stars, but they couldn’t compare. Their stories were much more vivid than those of the people and soon they blotted out Clay’s mind too, and he dropped down on the floor next to Wilbur. 

  
Lyrics flood Clay's mind. He knows that if he was just able to reach them, to put them down on paper, everything would be okay. But he can't seem to move. The words echo deafeningly in his head. Clay grabs at his ears, claws at his hair, trying to make the noise all stop. But it won't. It doesn’t. Clay screams, pleading with whatever wicked puppeteer is in his mind to make it cease, to let him understand what they say, what they mean. And, suddenly, there is nothing. Clay's lungs feel like they are collapsing. The nothingness seems to both press in on Clay and expands simultaneously. He curls into a ball. He grips his sides, huddling down against himself. Clay doesn’t know how long he stays like this. There is a flash, and Clay looks up. The light shines too brightly in his eyes, even when he lifts his arm to block it. He can’t tell who's standing in it, but he knows in his heart that this person is waiting for him and that they know the words to his songs. Clay lurches towards them, drawing closer he sees flashes of blue and brown, skin and captivating eyes, a smile dances across his vision. His fingers reach out the light warms them, he is so close, so close to grabbing them. 

  
Usually, the sun would wake the group, but that morning, Phil’s voice was what interrupted Clay’s dream. Confusion filled his head as he sat up. Like sand, his dream began to slip through his memories, sifting around until all he had left was the warmth on his hand and the intense brown eyes.

  
“Dream,” Phil called, using Clay’s stage name. Clay looked up at him, bleary-eyed.

  
“Time to get ready, sleeping beauty,” Nick called from the tiny bathroom. Wilbur and Karl snickered, both in varying states of dress. Wilbur was smudging makeup on Karl’s eyes, making him look catlike, mysterious. His own face was done up too, making his cheekbones like knives and his lips in a permanent pout. When Nick emerged from the bathroom, he, too, had darkened eyelids and brows. Clay pulled on his costume slowly, still groggy. Wilbur freed Karl, who immediately went to go inspect his reflection in the grimy bathroom mirror. He called Clay over next and began applying something to his eyebrows. Once Wilbur was satisfied and everyone dressed, they hurried to the wagon. Phil steered them to the largest square in the city, and, as pink began to touch the sky, they set up their stage. 

  
The eyes clung to Clay’s mind, he analyzed them from every perspective he could, but he could not place them for his life. He set up his parallel and high bars, detached from the conversation happening around him. He didn’t register what was going on until Karl bumped into him and dropped a vial of ink onto his shoes. 

  
“Honk, sorry.” Karl dived down to mop up what he could with his napkin.

  
“It’s okay,” Clay said. Karl nearly slammed his head into Clay’s jaw as he stood up.

  
“Did you see the royal stands?” Whispered Karl. Clay followed his eyes to where a mob dressed in blue and gold were rapidly constructing booths. Guards dressed in heavy armor eyed the performers suspiciously. Clay helped with the last bit of set up and met up with the others in their backstage tent. The nervous energy which encapsulated every performance made the air heavy. They were all fidgety, ready, and anxious to perform. For the first time since they entered the city limits, Clay’s mind felt clear. He was a performer. It was his blood, his soul. Some people felt only fear when they were forced to be on stage, but for Clay, it was second nature to entertain. When the trumpets announced the arrival of the royals, Wilbur started up an eerie tune. 

  
Phil took the stage first, as always. He introduced the show, his voice inviting the crowd in, and Clay could feel their attention fixating. One act went after the other, Nick drawing screams and gasps as he made flames touch the heavens from his lungs. Phil read the past and futures of the audience, spinning yarns of tragedy and great triumph. Karl left the audience dazzled with his seemingly impossible feats of illusion. And Wilbur’s music made every transition seamless, and every moment of suspense was amplified through his expertise. Finally, it was Clay’s turn to take the floor. 

  
“And now the act you’ve all been waiting to see,” Phil sounded almost inhumane. Clay bounced on his toes, electricity rushing through his veins. “DREAM!”

  
The stage was his home. The only place he belonged. Not one eye in the crowd left him, and he couldn’t have cared less. He told magnificent stories with his gymnastics, bringing laughter and sorrow with the slightest movement. It was perfect— at least at that moment, it was. 

  
The final act of the show was a group piece; involving a complicated balancing act, Clay being the highest on the tower. They were able to get themselves into the correct formation, Phil bracing himself as he held Nick and Clay above him. And Karl was able to produce the doves just as planned. But, as Clay contorted into the perfect pose, someone in the audience threw an apple at Phil, hitting him square in the chest. In a matter of seconds, they all came tumbling down. Clay’s mind went into overdrive as he reached the nearest thing to break his fall. This thing happened to be a beam supporting the royal booths, and he went flying straight into them. 

  
The sudden shift in momentum made Clay’s head spin. He was leaning against something soft. Something breathing. He swayed back, trying to figure out who he’d just crushed. The person groaned loudly; they’d surely had the wind knocked out of them. Clay brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked down. It was a boy, maybe a year or two older than he was, wearing a large red cape and an exceptionally detailed suit. The boy blinked his eyes open, searching momentarily, before meeting Clay’s. His lips moved, but Clay couldn’t hear what he was saying. At that moment, Clay felt his heart stop, but before he could say anything, arms looped around his shoulders, and he was being dragged away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya, thanks for the kudos! sorry this chapter took a while to post, it wasn't easy to edit. I am working on the next chapter now, no clue when it will be up, hopefully within the next week :P


	4. Chapter 4: His Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George finds himself at the intersection of fantasy and reality

George should have known that Minx bursting into his bedroom was bad news. 

For the last few days, he’d been desperately trying to keep her entertained within the walls of the castle, yet, she still seemed to inexplicably vanish from his sight. Only to return, hours later, with new stories from the city. If he was being honest, this behavior was starting to get on his nerves; George had never been the best babysitter. 

For all of the things Minx did that made George want to scream, he did have to admit that he was a little envious of her enthusiasm. George had always thought that he wanted to leave the walls, but every time Minx invited him out, his stomach did such aggressive flips he worried he might throw up. So he would turn her down, retreating to the library where he’d immerse himself in worlds of imagination. It was much easier to dream than it was to actually face reality. 

Their fathers had been so excited about their talks that they’d brought in nobles, from across both countries, to assist in their plotting. George had sat in on some of them but, he found politics terrifically boring and used every excuse imaginable to get out. To George’s detriment, the King now thought that George was escaping the meetings due to an infatuation with Minx. And, at every chance, would try and push the two together. 

Dinner was notably bad; the King would sit them next to each other, start conversations about marriage, or, children, or conquest. George would be forced to hold a porcelain smile as his life was ironed out in front of him, any hope for individuality smote by the King’s careful eye. Minx seemed perfectly content to marry George, though she had made it clear to him it would not be out of love, more to appease her family. It sickened George to even think about a wedding. Every time he watched Minx slink out the servant's door, he cursed himself for not going with her. For not imploring her to return to the castle without him, and to tell everyone that he’d died, so that no one would come looking. Above the world, George stood in his tower, watching clouds shift across the dull blue expanse of sky. Knowing in his heart that he didn’t belong, and knowing that he was too scared to do anything about it. 

“George!” Minx was practically screaming. He’d been too lost in thought to notice how close to his ear she’d gotten. 

“Oh my Gods, Minx,” He didn’t like the fire in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I found a traveling circus!” George raised his eyebrows, which Minx took as an invitation to tell him more. “They’re performing tomorrow, so I’m going to go tell our fathers that we’ll need a royal escort.” 

“Are you sure?” He asked. 

“Of course, I’m sure! I even met one of the performers. Are all of the people in your kingdom hot?” George felt shame trickle down his back.

“I wouldn’t know.” He mumbled. Minx gave him a look, something stuck between pity and sympathy. 

“That’s alright. I’ll go down now, I think, hopefully, they won't mind my interruption.” Said Minx. George gave her a weak smile as she left the room. 

He knew he was sheltered: the shy prince who barely left the library. He didn’t know anything about love or passion. Hell, he hadn’t even kissed anybody. At night though, when he tucked himself under his duvet and closed his eyes tightly, he caught glimpses of a person who he knew he loved. Nevermore than a smile or smell. Sometimes, the caress of fingers on his neck and waist. He’d wake up, alone, reaching out for them, nearly in tears as they flickered through his grasp. When Minx touched him, George didn’t feel the same electric sting. Her smile was wrong, too. It was so polished, so practiced. In his head, the smile was lopsided, with a scar on one side. George wasn’t sure what type of girl would have a scar like that, but she certainly wasn't a princess. 

Fog filled his head, and he gave it a shake in an attempt to regain his thoughts. George ambled over to his desk, which was littered in leather-bound books and rolls of parchment. He’d been trying to transcribe some old texts for months but had gotten completely tangled up in the prefixes. Usually, the books sat abandoned, gathering dust. Ever since Minx had started questioning his hobbies George had found renewed satisfaction in the quiet work. The large, antique, Chesterfield chair creaked as George settled into it. He raised his quill to his tongue before dipping it into a small pot of pitch-black ink. Pages rustled softly under his breath. The quill danced, the soft scritching echoing off tall ceilings. Time inched by, sluggishly, his world finally slowing to a manageable pace as George lost himself in the nuances of ancient vernacular.

It didn’t last. After only working for about a half-hour, George was interrupted by timid knocking upon his door. He glanced at the little clock he kept wound up on the corner of his desk, sighing when he realized it was time to get ready for dinner. At his word, a flood of people burst in, sweeping him up and to the dressing room. Chatter swallowed up precious silence, making the room seem incomprehensibly small. George was pushed into another tuxedo, this one a murky yellow— George frowned at this color choice but didn’t question it. His hair was slicked back stylishly. Medals were pinned to his jacket one after another, his status rising with each addition. After a bit more prodding and pulling, George’s appearance was deemed acceptable, and the people trickled out of his room. Alone, again, George exhaled the air he was holding, trying to, desperately, reclaim his identity. There wasn’t time for that; a distant bell began chiming six. He flew down marbled stairs, a path he could run with his eyes closed. 

Standing in front of the monstrous dining hall doors, George took a final moment to compose himself. He rolled his shoulders back, lifted his chin, plastered on a smile, and motioned for the doors to open. 

There was something glaringly wrong about the scene before him: Eret’s throne was nowhere to be seen, yet Minx still sat quietly next to his chair. Conversation had ceased while George approached his seat but resumed, promptly, once he took it, which allowed George to whisper to Minx;

“Where's Eret?” 

“Oh, some silly thing happened back home, so he had to go.” Minx was attempting to balance her knife on her finger, earning some incredibly pointed looks from the other nobles at the table. George shifted in his seat, tugging at his sleeve. 

“What does that mean,” He glanced around before leaning in closer. “For us?” 

Minx’s knife clattered to the floor. 

“I don't know.” She hissed, ducking to retrieve it. From her tone, George suspected she was done talking. He attempted to alleviate the situation by asking about the circus, and she continued giving him short answers until George gave up entirely. Minx was the first to leave the table, apologizing lightly as she fluttered out the room, claiming a sudden headache. The King gave George a questioning look which he waved off, mouthing “ _ later _ ”, even though he didn’t want to talk about it at all. 

Later came too quickly. When George excused himself, his father mimicked, and together they hiked back up to George’s room. The very instant the door closed behind them, the King erupted into questions. 

“What was that? At dinner. Have you already run her off?” 

“No, Dad, it was nothing, really.” Said, George.

“Are you sure? Cause your old man was quite the ladies man back in the day, so if you need advice—”

“Gross, stop talking, seriously, we were just talking about Eret.” George cut him off. 

“She told you that Eret had to travel back to his kingdom?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to visit him soon, I’ll leave in a few days.” Said The King. He sat down next to George on his bed. 

“Okay.” 

“I’ll be back within the month, so you shouldn’t be needed to do anything extraordinary.”

Awkward silence lapsed between the pair. 

“When is Minx leaving?” George asked softly. The King punched his shoulder.

“I knew you liked her! What have I been saying!?” 

“Dad.” 

“Right, right, well, she’s scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow, but I’m sure you could get her to stay longer if you asked.” 

“I’m sure she’s homesick,” George argued. The King shrugged and winked at him. “Are you coming to the circus thing tomorrow?” 

“No, you don’t want me spoiling your date.” 

George blushed;  _ it wasn’t a date, was it? _

“Oh, yeah.” 

“Unless you wanted me to?” 

“No, that's okay, unless you want to come?”

“You’ll be fine, kiddo. Just tell her she looks pretty and agree with whatever she says.” The King laughed as if it was common knowledge. 

“Is that how you got Mom?” George teased.

“No, she was different,” Memories flickered on the King's eyes. Sadness clouded his features for an instant before a smile split across his face. “She was different because I actually meant it.”

The awkward silence returned, ringing in George’s ears.

“I’ll let you sleep.” Said the King, smacking George on the back.

They exchanged goodnights. Before closing the door, the King wished George luck once more.

George puttered about his room, extinguishing candles, splashing warm water on his hair and face, and peeling the suit off. Finally, he cuddled up below his thick blanket and let his eyes slip closed. Starting at his feet, waves of sleep began crashing down. George’s bones felt heavy in his skin as he gave himself, entirely, to the sweet escape of unconsciousness.

Soft bells woke him the next morning at the crack of dawn. If he had dreamt that night, the only thing he could remember was the ever-present smile. George stretched. Early morning sun streamed in through the colored windows, tinting everything blue. He rang for breakfast, which was delivered promptly, and sat in bed eating. He wondered if Minx was awake. He could see her if he really tried; rushing about her room, a dozen servants following her. Tulle, flowing out of every drawer, gems, and jewels scattered on the floor. George promptly lost his appetite. 

After a chaotic dressing— involving several ripped seams and a furious stylist— George stood at the carriage door, waiting for Minx. He saw her dress first. It was an elegant grey which matched his suit perfectly. Floral embroidery covered her chest, trailing down to her feet. George waited for his heart to melt, but it never did. Minx gave him a look as they climbed into the carriage but waited to speak until she was sure they were alone. 

“Why’s your face all funny?” She asked.

“What?” George’s hand instinctively flew up to his cheek. 

“Relax, Gods, you look good. The green suits you.”

“Green?” George glanced at his suit; it was most definitely grey, not green. 

Minx laughed, leaving George, mutely, confused. 

When they arrived at the square, George was relieved to see that booths had been set up for them to watch from. Plush armchairs and platters of finger foods were laid out inside, making George feel suddenly very spoiled. He tried to ignore the looks civilians passing by were giving them. Minx flopped down onto the nearest chair, letting out a loud groan.

“Is it comfortable?” George asked. Minx smiled, eyes closed. George picked up a grape, popping it in his mouth. He approached the balcony of the booth, looking down at the people swarming below. The stage was set with various equipment, and a large mat had been spread out before the wagon. Behind it, from his lofted vantage point, George could see that the performers had erected a small tent. If he squinted, he thought he could see figures moving around inside. 

“You said you met one of them?” George asked over his shoulder.

“Yeah, an acrobat, or something. I’ll point him out.” 

“Come look, what do you think that is used for?” He pointed at a large bottle sitting next to some wooden hoops. Minx uncurled from her chair and joined him. 

“I don't know, we’ll have to see.” She looked at George. “You’re excited, aren’t you?”

“Am not.” Said George, face hot. 

A performer wearing a funny cloak emerged from the tent and took the stage. Hushed anticipation hung in the air. From somewhere, a drum began beating. The performer introduced the show, and himself, as the music swelled. One by one, the other performers joined him, introducing themselves. 

Energy pulsed through Georges's veins. 

“That's who I met; Dream, in the red,” Minx whispered, as a man in a fantastic monochrome costume bounced out. He was beaming. Something stirred in George’s stomach, but he figured it was just excitement. 

The show was enrapturing. George was sure he’d never laughed so hard, never been so confused, so utterly dazzled. If Minx spoke to him at all, George didn’t hear it. All he could focus on were the completely perfect people on the stage. And, then, Dream entered for his solo piece. 

Dream seemed to be fluid, weaving around the bars as if it was as simple as breathing. His muscles rippled below his shirt, but his smile never faltered. When he would soar through the air, George would hold his breath, but Dream always landed gracefully, like a cat. George’s surroundings melted away as he watched. By the end, his hands ached from clapping. 

Philza took the stage for the last time, thanking everyone for their donations before he introduced the final act. 

It seemed impossible, yet nevertheless, Sapnap balanced his weight carefully onto Philza’s shoulders. Once he was comfortable, Dream climbed up, his feet resting squarely on Sapnap’s own shoulders. Slowly, Philza began moving, swaying the tower around the stage. From the tent, doves appeared, encircling the men. 

“This is incredible—” George turned to whisper at Minx. 

At that very moment, something came rocketing out of the audience and slammed into Philza, causing him to sway. George barely had time to turn back before he was suddenly struck by something so heavy it managed to both knock him off his feet and push all of the air out of his lungs. 

George had his eyes squeezed shut until he felt the weight shifting. Blinking, he searched for the cause, landing on the tall man laying on top of him; Dream. 

George’s mouth went dry. His lungs burned. He spoke anyways;

“Your scar,” He wheezed. 

Dream’s eyes were boring into George’s soul. 

In a flash, guards swooped in and dragged Dream off of him, but George didn’t move. Minx appeared above him, face creased with worry. 

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“His scar,” Was all George could manage before he too was swept away in a flurry of royal guards and medics. 

He should have known that Minx bursting into his room was bad news. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goodness! thank you all so, so, much for the kudos! I really appreciate every single one! honestly, it's surprising that anyone is reading this at all, I really didn't expect it (this is my first fic), so again, thank you! I hope you enjoy this chapter too, and as always I'm working on the next one!   
> ps, how are you all finding this fic?   
> pps, leave a kudos if you like it, or don't, you don't have to listen to me :P


	5. Chapter 5: Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George finds that following the heart is never easy.

For the first time since George had met her, Minx was silent. The absence of chatter seemed to amplify his racing mind until the thoughts were clattering so rapidly George felt his head might split open. His dreams, right there, close enough to touch, and  _ real. _ The nights spent tossing and turning, picturing a future with a voice unknown, rising with the sun to a pit of empty loneliness. 

Real, real, real, real. George tapped his fingers to the rhythm, his eyes flickering along with buildings outside the carriage windows.

The ride to the square hadn’t felt half this long. A glance at Minx assured him that she was also caught in thought. Cookie frosting stained the front of her dress. When the performer had crashed into the booth, he’d accidentally pushed a table of finger foods on top of Minx. In the subsequent chaos, her makeup had somehow gotten pulled down her face. George wondered if he should say something. But what could he possibly say that would make this all work out?

“Hi, sorry, a pair of lips from my dreams just crashed into me and ruined our date." The idea nearly made him laugh out loud.

That definitely seemed inappropriate, so George stifled himself. Thinking about the circus performer— _ Dream _ — made his ribs ache worse, so George shifted his attention to deciphering what Minx was thinking. Which only made his ribs hurt worse because Minx was utterly unreadable. George liked the way her hair seemed to glow in the flashing sunlight. She seemed so steady, so sure of herself, even with stained clothes and ruined makeup.

For a second, George imagined a life with her. He pictured a royal wedding covered in precious gems and ancient family heirlooms. In his mind, George could see a much older Minx sitting by his side. Her eyes were dull, having outgrown her passion in the name of appearances. He would never be enough for her. Guilt nearly consumed him; Minx deserved better than to be married to a man who was in love with a dream. 

A jolt to the carriage interrupted his mourning to remind him that his dream was no longer a fantasy; he was chained up in the wagon behind him. Minx’s eyes flashed to his as another equally indecipherable emotion clouded her face. Embarrassed that he had been caught staring, George spent the rest of the ride shooting daggers at his feet. 

When they arrived at the castle, Minx left the carriage without a word. George watched her, flanked by ladies-in-waiting, ascending the cobbled stairs, but didn’t follow her.

He needed to talk to Dream. 

George turned on his heel and began walking back towards the castle gates. Determination flooded his veins, making his fingers ache with the pressure. The prison was only a few blocks away from the castle. George had traced the path from his bedroom window enough times that he was sure it would be impossible to get lost. 

Luck was on his side as he slipped by the guards' station, silently thanking his father for forcing him into years of combat training. Keeping his chin down, George made his best attempt to be innocuous. Wearing his extravagant suit, this proved to be significantly more difficult than he had hoped, but at least people gave him a wide berth. 

The prison was a fat, imposing building. Its dark grey facade was alarmingly plain, save windows no larger than fists that were pockmarked across the multiple stories. Decay wafted from the slits pungently as if it sucked the life from the bustling streets. 

George gagged, but, breathing from his mouth and balling his courage, he pushed through the doors. 

The guard working the front desk practically fell out of his seat in an attempt to salute. He stammered through a list of apologies before George was able to convince him to just listen. 

“I’m sure you heard about the...” George hesitated. “Incident that occurred today?” 

The guard bobbed his head. 

“I was wondering if I could speak to the performer you arrested?” George squashed the hope from his voice, trying to sound commanding. 

“Yes, yes, of course, sir, if you’ll just wait a moment, I have to find the cell.” Rapidly, the man darted from the room and up a set of loudly protesting stairs. 

Alone, George’s mind returned to Dream. Despite his efforts, George found himself scrutinizing every freckle, trying to find something that would mean that this man was not who George thought he was. That it was all just a coincidence. And again, despite his efforts, he could find no flaws. 

The stairs signaled the guard's return, and he motioned for George to follow him up. “They’re right this way. Watch your step,” 

A suspicious, slippery substance covered one of the steps. George winced and skipped it entirely, ignoring that the guard had walked straight through. 

“... Performers are some of the worst we get, save the murders of course, always so in-diggy-ant and rowdy.” The guard was saying. 

George did his best to focus on the chatter, but his focus drifted as they passed cell after cell, each teeming with bodies in various states of filth. 

George felt ill at the thought of spending a night somewhere like this and made a mental note to speak to his father about better funding. “Right, here they are, this one,” 

George inspected the cell anxiously. Four men sat against the walls, their bright clothes clashing against the grime. The older two of the group looked incredibly bored. George recognized one of them as the leader,  _ Philza _ , the other name he couldn't remember. The younger two leaned against each other and conversed in low voices,  _ Sapnap _ , and  _ Karl _ , a fire-breather and a magician. Dream was nowhere to be seen. 

Lazily, Philza looked up at the guard and George.

“Come to let us go, eh? Realized that we haven’t done anything wrong?” He asked. 

“Oi, shut it, you’ll not speak so rudely to the prince.” The guard snapped back, brandishing a heavy sword that George had just noticed. 

“It’s fine, really,” George lowered his voice so that only the guard could hear him “Where is the other one?”

“Other one?” The guard asked, raising his brow. “We didn’t get any other performers today.” 

“Are you talking about Dream?” Sapnap asked, cutting off Karl mid-sentence. 

“Yeah, I am, do you know where he is?” George asked eagerly. Sapnap opened his mouth to respond before he, too, was cut off. 

“No, no, I am sorry, Sir, but I can not have you conducting interviews; you might taint their responses!” Cried the guard, waving his hand and sword around haphazardly. Someone let out a loud hoot down the hall, apologizing again, the guard clattered off, roaring profane abuses.

George’s question had prompted Philza to look back over at him. Under his intense gaze, George found his voice fading away in his throat. The man whose name he couldn’t remember whispered something to Philza in a language George didn’t understand.

“Give him a chance, Wilbur,” Philza responded softly. Even without having understood the phrase, George knew that Philza was talking about him.

Returning from his tirade, the guard glanced between the inmates and George. “Is that all, sir?”

“No.” George maintained his eye contact with Philza momentarily before turning to face the guard. “I am your prince, and you will do as I say. I would like you to release these inmates immediately and drop all charges against them. Then I would like you to leave and find out where the other performer is being kept. He goes by the name Dream if that helps. Now please escort me, and my friends, here, to their belongings at once. If you do not comply, I will see to it that it is you sitting in this cell until you rot.” 

“Yes, Sir.” The guard squeaked as he unlocked the cell. He hesitated before pulling the door open, which prompted George to reach out and do it himself. The metal was sticky and caked with soot, but George was so caught up in his confidence that he was not fazed. He sent the guard scampering after the performer's things. 

“Told you so,” Philza said, groaning as he stood up. Wilbur let out a snort and clambered up, followed by the other pair. George felt small as they rose; each man towered above him. A small part of his brain willed the guard to return quickly with his sword, but as easy smiles slid onto the performer’s faces, he cursed his irrationality. 

“Thank you, your majesty!” Karl said brightly, clapping a hand onto George’s shoulder. George winced; even though he was the smallest, Karl was much stronger than George was. 

“Be careful with him; you wouldn't want to hurt the guy who just freed us.” Sapnap laughed. 

“Don’t worry. And, please, call me George,” George said as he followed Karl down the hallway. He could hear Wilbur and Philza conversing in the same foreign language. 

“In that case, call me Karl,” Karl said, tossing a grin over his shoulder.

They descended the loud staircase. This time, George didn’t step over the suspicious step. He was trying to seem at least a little unbothered by the situation. 

It was slowly dawning on him that he had just released four potential criminals by threatening a respectable man who was just trying to do his job with death. 

At the base of the stairs, the same guard was anxiously shifting a bag of things from hand to hand. At George’s request, he had even pulled the performer's wagon to the outside. Forgetting George, the performers rushed to it. The guard stood nervously at attention before telling George that he'd not found any information on Dream's whereabouts. George sighed, dismissed him, and trailed the others outside. 

“They tore the cyclorama!” He heard Karl shout. 

They stood in a semi-circle, pointing out damages. Each expense chilled the air around them. 

“And they broke your guitar Wilbur,” Sapnap added. 

“Fucking hell, they did it all,” Replied Wilbur, his voice thick with an accent George just then placed. 

“You're from L’Manburg!” He blurted. Wilbur and Philza turned slowly. 

“Sorry?” Said Wilbur.

“Your accent. You’re from L’Manburg, aren’t you?” George asked. The air froze entirely. 

“No,” Wilbur said shortly and stalking off to inspect the other side of the wagon. 

“Sorry, mate, sore subject, good guess though,” Philza said.

“Right, of course, sorry,” The history of the nation flitted across George’s memory dotted with excerpts from an old history book. Karl cut through the tension as he let out a particularly anguished cry. 

In his hands, he held a very bent empty birdcage. “They let them all go! They’ll die on their own; they need pampering!” 

“It’s alright, Karl, they’re birds, they’ll figure it out.” Said Sapnap, draping an arm over Karl’s frame. 

“No, you don’t understand, I’ve raised them on a special diet, and, and, they’re  _ my _ doves! I’m their Mom; they need me! I have to go find them.”

Prickling guilt raced down George’s spine. His mission to find and interrogate Dream had gone sorely off base.

“If you like, I can get you all a spot at a hotel, while I figure out where Dream went, that way you can find your birds,” George said. “And while you wait, I’ll pay for any repairs you need.” 

“You’re too kind, surely we can’t—” Philza began. 

From around the wagon, Wilbur suddenly emerged. His height and dark eyes made George want to shrink away. “No, Phil. His men did this to our wagon, it’s only right that he makes it right. Oh, and, Karl, I would try the churches first; the doves will be looking for you too.” 

“It's really no problem,” George added quickly. He couldn’t help but feel that Wilbur didn’t like him. 

“Alright, if we all agree, then George, show us the way.” 

George was enormously grateful that he’d memorized a map of the city as he wove through the streets leading the troubadours towards the nicest hotel he could think of. Karl and Sapnap walked alongside him, taking in the city and peppering him with questions about being royal. For the first time in his life, George felt that the people speaking to him were genuinely curious about his life and didn’t just want something from him. In between the questions, Sapnap and Karl would launch into stories from their own adventures. By the time they arrived at the inn, they had both decided that they much preferred their life to Georges, and George found himself filled with envy that it had come to them so quickly.

Upon seeing George, the innkeeper immediately waived all fees and showed them to a spacious room decorated in dark wooden furniture and velvet. Karl and Sapnap raced each other for the beds, cheering as they crashed into mountains of pillows. Philza let out a low whistle, and even Wilbur seemed impressed. 

After a few minutes, a large bottle of champagne was brought to their room, compliments of the innkeeper. Following the bottle was a silver tray laden with expensive cheeses and bread. George did his best to remain polite, but soon primal urges took over as he realized that he'd not eaten since that morning. With some convincing that the molded cheese was, in fact, edible the rest joined in with vigor. It appeared they, too, had not eaten in lieu of the fiasco. 

“I’ve just realized we haven’t introduced ourselves,” Philza said abruptly, his mouth filled with brie. Philza let out a short bark, which summoned Sapnap and Karl from their pillow fight. 

One by one, they each gave their names, and George was surprised to learn that Sapnap stood for Nick, but he didn’t question it. No one mentioned Dream’s real name. George didn’t ask. 

He spent the rest of the evening trying to compile a list of expenses, but it kept getting overturned as they found new ones. The guards, apparently, were not skilled at putting a whole stage back together. Once the streetlights were lit, George finally decided that he needed to leave. He had the innkeeper order him a carriage even though Nick and Karl offered to walk him to the gates. 

George did not want to leave, but he saw the men begin preparing to sleep, and their closeness hit him like a wave. Even the simplest motions were done with such practiced ease they seemed meaningful. George grasped just how out of place he was as he watched Nick rub some sort of paste onto Karls' skin, gently wiping off smudged makeup without hesitation. Turning towards the door, George could not stop the plunging feeling in his chest. He could never be this carefree. As he turned the knob, a sudden weight on his arm made him turn back. Phil stood uncomfortably close. 

“Find Dream.” He hissed. Something cold had crept into his voice that made George’s hair stand on end. Before he could respond, Phil pushed him out the door. 

The hotel hall was empty and still, though George could hear Nick’s loud laugh through the door. As he stood, unsure of his next move, he heard Nick’s voice joined by Wilbur’s. Wilbur was singing something so loudly that George could practically hear his smile. Phil joined in at the chorus. The words were foreign, but if George focused, he could finally place it. They were speaking Burgian; one of the dead languages he translated when he was bored. Or at least, he thought it was dead. Focusing harder, George found he could even understand some of the words, as the pair sang a song of a hopeful young warrior. Wonder filled his heart, followed by a sort of budding love he had not felt in a long time: hope. 

Smiling ear to ear, George raced down the stairs. He needed to find Dream, to tell him everything. The innkeeper tried to say something but George didn’t hear it, he flew to the carriage, ripping the door open and tossing himself in with a soft laugh. Optimism began nipping at his ribs as the carriage lurched out onto the silent street. 

Winking lights blurred as he urged the driver to take them to the castle at a breakneck speed. His father would surely know what had happened to Dream if he could just catch him before bed. 

The castle loomed, its glowing windows so inviting. George bounced his knee with the rough cobblestone.

He didn’t wait for the door to be opened. Taking the stairs in twos and threes George willed his lungs not to burst. 

The King’s door was the most ornate in the whole castle. It was hand-carved from the oldest trees in the nation and displayed a complex forest scene. Tiny wooden deer stared at even smaller birds soaring across a mahogany sky. Along the hinge, fairies played trumpets on the backs of delicate butterflies and bees. Disregarding the frozen tranquility, George pounded his fist to the wood. 

“Dad!” He shouted. 

The door swung open with a heaving groan revealing the King’s manservant, Adam. 

Adam’s eyes slid up and down George’s body, taking in the rumpled clothes and dirty boots. “Your highness?” 

“Adam, where is my father?” 

“He’s using the lavatory. Can I help you?” 

“I need to speak to him.” George pushed past Adam, ignoring his feeble protest. 

George bounced on the balls of his feet in the center of the room. When the bathroom door was pulled open sometime later, he swiveled to face his robed father. 

“George? What’s the matter, son?” The King’s face was red from his bath. 

“I need to speak to you,” George cast a glance to Adam, who was standing silently by the door. “Alone.”

“Alright, Adam?” Adam gave a polite nod and slipped away, snake-like. 

The King turned to George. “What is it?” 

“Dad, the performer, today, the one who hit me, where is he?” George asked in a single breath. The King gave him an odd look. 

“In the dungeon, why?” 

George paled. The dungeon was only reserved for criminals who had committed acts against the crown or church. 

“What? Why?” 

The King groaned, dropping heavily onto his bed and running a hand through his shaggy greying hair. George followed him to the bedside, handing him the water pitcher when his father waved for it. 

“George, what on earth has gotten into you? Why are you in here at this hour interrogating me about some low life?” The King reached to touch George’s arm reassuringly, but George flinched away. 

“Dad, why is he in the dungeon?” He repeated. The King sighed and rubbed his face, sipping straight from the pitcher. 

“I didn’t want to tell you this, sit down.” George obeyed. “That man… was hired to assassinate you. It was lucky the guards pulled him off when they did, or he would have likely succeeded.” 

George gawked at his father. He searched desperately for a sly smile, or a twitching eyelid, something that meant his father was only teasing. 

“I’m sorry, son. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you like this.” 

Disbelief bubbled in George's chest. He blinked back to the moment he’d seen Dream’s face. No, surely not. Dream had looked just as stunned, certainly not someone who was planning a murder. And, the others, could Nick and Karl and Phil, and even Wilbur really have lied to him like that? George’s mouth was painfully dry. He pulled his eyes off the carpet and back to the King. “How do you know?” 

When he heard the explanation, George felt like throwing up. Without another word, he lifted himself from the bed. With increasingly frantic steps, he hurdled down the castle into its lowest chambers. 

George wrestled the iron door open and was greeted with a smell twelve times worse than that of the city prison. Agonized cries echoed off metal walls, and blood seeped into George’s boots from origins unknown. He grabbed a torch off the wall and, covering his mouth with one arm, took a step inside. 

Paranoia seeped into his bones. Each cell he passed held men and women in dire states of emaciation, their skin littered with open, oozing wounds. How could his father permit such cruelty? How had he not known about it? Dead eyes lifted to the torchlight. Mouths moved, repeating foreign prayers, whispering names, begging for absolution. George walked faster, desperately trying to find Dream. 

Finally, in the very last cell, George’s torch revealed a hunched over figure. When Dream realized he was being watched, he unfolded himself and glared up at the door. 

“Come back for more?” He asked, his voice perfectly calm. George held the light higher, exposing his blood-soaked clothes. A large gash across the side of Dream's head seemed to be the primary source. 

“Are you gonna talk or just stare at me?” Dream taunted. 

“Stand up,” George whispered. 

“Or what?” 

“Just… do it, please?”

Something in George’s tone must have betrayed his worry as Dream clambered, shakily, to his feet. 

“What kind of guard are you, using please?” Dream approached the cell door. 

George couldn’t think of a response. And when Dream’s eyes adjusted to the glimmering firelight, his voice died, too. 

“You?” He finally managed to squeak. 

Dream's face glimmered slightly from blood and sweat. He stepped closer, entwining his fingers into the metal bars. 

"How are you here?" He asked. 

“I’m… George.” George said dumbly. 

“George.” Dream repeated softly.

A moment passed as the pair examined one another. 

“You’re Dream, right?” 

“No, I’m—” Dream stopped himself. “I mean, yes, I’m Dream.” 

“I— I spoke to Phil, and Nick, and everyone.” Said George. 

Dream’s face lit up. 

“Did you? Are they okay?” He asked, stepping even closer to the bars. George resisted the urge to step back. 

“They’re all okay. I got them a hotel in the city, so they can wait for you. Karl lost his birds, though.” 

Dream let out a funny, wheezing laugh. George’s stomach swooped. 

“Oh, those damn birds.” He said. Suddenly sobering, Dream trained his intense eyes onto George. “When  _ will  _ I get out of here?” 

In an instant, George remembered what his father had said. He eyed the man before him. He was tall, radiating calm, confident energy. Below the layer of drying blood, George could see his light hair and scattered freckles. His lips were pulled into a subtle smile, cut with a scar down one side. Even in the poor lighting, there was no question that they were the ones from his dreams. George watched Dream pick a bit of the rust from the bars idly. How could this man be a killer?

“I don't know. It all depends,” George finally replied. 

“On what?” 

“Whether or not what my father said was true.”

Dream snorted. 

“And what, pray tell, did he say?” 

“Dream, did someone hire you to kill me?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hihihihihi  
> okay so, dont get mad, im sorry this took so long for me to post  
> i hope everyone had delightful holidays! and an even better new year!  
> i am not sure when I'll have the next chapter out, as i go back to nursing school in a week so im going to get very busy! but i will not forget this, so hopefully soon we will see more! im so grateful for the kudos and all the support it means the world to me.   
> absolutely all the best in the coming year, love you all,   
> clem <3


	6. Chapter 6: Meadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay finds his heart being split.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight TW: self-harm/hitting and panic attacks

Firelight pooled in George’s eyes, turning them into molten honey. Clay could barely pull away from their depths. He felt drawn towards the man on the opposite side of the bars. And, had to resist the urge to reach towards him. 

  
Clay’s stomach felt heavy as George repeated his question.

  
“Dream?” He asked after Clay failed to respond for the second time. Clay shook his head slightly, ripping himself from his thoughts.

  
“What? No, of course not.” He stumbled over his words. George looked at him, his lips twitched downwards. It was plain to see that George did not believe him.

  
“Really?” George asked. “Why would my father lie?”

  
Clay didn’t have an answer for that.

  
“I don't know.”

  
“And, why did he say that you admitted it?” George continued. His eyebrow quirked. 

  
The events of the day flashed through Clay’s mind. Several sustained beatings, being hung by his thumb and, finally, shoved into a dark, lonely cell. George looked truly confused, which made Clay wonder if he could really be so naive. One look at himself should have answered that question.

  
“I had to,” Clay ultimately sighed. 

  
Recognition crossed across George’s eyes.

  
“Oh.” 

  
Clay took the silence to study George once more. He had short, dark hair and pale, unmarked skin. From his complexion alone, Clay guessed he had never done a day’s worth of hard labor. Clay’s suspicion was confirmed as he watched George shift his hand around the torch. His hands were callous-free. George’s umber eyes flashed as he thought. Clay wished he could know what the man was thinking. 

  
“How can I believe you?” Asked George. 

  
“I don’t know,” Clay repeated. His head gave a nasty throb, making him wince.

  
George thought for another moment before his eyes twinkled with an idea. 

  
“Are you hungry?” He asked. 

  
Clay’s stomach growled in response. George smiled. 

  
“Okay. I’ll go get something, and then…” George took a breath and fixed Clay with his paralyzing gaze. “Then, we are going to talk until I believe you.”

  
“Okay.” 

  
George marched back down the hall, taking the light with him. 

  
Alone, in the smothering dark, Clay slid down against the bars. He was exhausted just from standing. The prisoners around them were moaning softly. Their prayers reminded him of Phil and Wilbur’s old hymns. He missed his friends. George had spoken to them, but where were they now? Were they okay? Was he going to be okay? Would he ever see the people he loved most again? Or was he destined to die, alone and afraid, in a buried cell?

  
Fear stung behind his eyelids as the snake of worry began hissing predictions into his ears. Clay tried to blot out the noise by smashing his palms into his ears. But, it was impossible to run from his thoughts. 

  
His breath began coming in short bursts, filling his head with overwhelming sounds of rushing water. The tiny cell compressed in on him until his body burned from pressure. Tears squeezed from his clamped eyes, mixing with the blood on his cheeks. The sticky solution only aided in making his panic worse, as he frantically tried to wipe it off with his sleeves. 

  
This was all his fault. He should have seen the apple, warned Phil to move out of the way. He shouldn’t have fallen into George. Hell, he shouldn’t have been dreaming of him, either. Even Karl losing his beloved doves was his fault. Acid burned Clay’s throat.

  
He could feel energy rushing through the fibers of his being, making his skin burn with anticipation. Desperately, Clay flailed his arm out to try and release it. 

  
Satisfyingly, his balled fist made contact with the nearby wall. Clay felt the skin on his knuckles split. He swung his arm back, slamming back into the cold stone. 

  
How did this happen? How did this happen? How did this happen?

  
Again, and again, and again, he struck the wall. The rushing in his head made him feel that he was on the verge of an explosion. 

  
Somewhere in the distance, he heard a loud clatter, an incoherent yell, footsteps, and the sound of metal being dragged against concrete. Clay did not care.

  
Once more, he pulled his bloody hand back and swung it forward, searching for the sickening release on bloodied stone. This time, though, something stopped him. In one motion, he was pushed back against the floor. His head knocked painfully against the dirt, giving him a moment of clarity. Clay blinked, realizing that the light had returned. He looked around, taking a few deep breaths as he did. The blossoming pain from his hand started to clear his mind. 

  
George stood above him, eyes wide and frightened. Slowly, he squatted down next to Clay and extended a hand to him.

  
“Dream?” His voice shook with worry. 

  
Clay took his hand silently, embarrassed, and let himself be pulled into a sitting position. His head was still rushing. George took a seat next to Clay and tucked his knees to his chest.   
“Call me Clay.” Clay’s lips were almost too dry to move. If he was going to die in here, at least he’d die under the right name.

  
“Okay, Clay,” George said quietly.

  
“Did you… did you bring any water?” Clay asked after a moment passed. 

  
“Yeah, one second.” George jumped to his feet and hurried out the door. Clay noticed that he left it open.

  
George returned with a gaudy, gold pitcher. He didn’t miss Clay’s glance at it. 

  
“They wouldn’t give me anything less… fancy when I asked,” George said. He seemed almost embarrassed. From his back pocket, he produced two sticky buns wrapped in parchment. “Sorry, I dropped everything else.” 

  
“Thank you.” Clay took the pitcher and one of the buns. He refrained from telling George that he had eaten worse than something dropped on the floor. 

  
“Take them both,” George pushed the other bun into Clay’s lap, sitting back down next to him. 

  
They sat, quietly, as Clay inhaled both buns and most of the water pitcher. The buns were filled with sweet jam and glazed with the most delicate sugar Clay had ever seen. Bit by bit, the fog in his brain subsided until he just ached with fatigue. 

  
“If you think I was hired to kill you, shouldn’t you be trying to stay away from me?” Clay asked. George glanced up at him, brow creased.

  
“Relax, I’m not going to,” Clay assured. George smirked.

  
“With that hand, I would like to see you try.” 

  
George and Clay both looked down at the bloody, hacked up mess of Clay’s hand.

  
“Shit…” Clay murmured. 

  
His attacks weren’t usually this destructive. Usually, Nick could help him calm down before anything too bad would happen. As if reading his mind, George spoke. “Does this happen often?” 

  
“No, not like this,” Clay answered, truthfully. It felt wrong to lie to him. Their eyes met before George broke away. Clay’s chest fluttered as George shifted closer towards him.

  
“Let me see,” George motioned. 

  
“What?” Clay pulled back.

  
“Your hand. I know a bit about first aid; let me look at it.” 

  
“Oh.”

  
George scooped up Clay’s injured hand. His fingers were long and cold against Clay’s skin. Clay let George gently manipulate it, transfixed by the other man’s scrutinizing eye. Up close, Clay could see his dusting of freckles and a loose eyelash on his cheek. Without thinking, he leaned in and plucked it off, something Karl always did to him. George froze, as did Clay when his actions met with his mind. 

  
“Eyelash.” He whispered hoarsely. George said nothing, swiped his tongue over his lip and went back to studying Clay’s hand. 

  
After some time, he placed Clay’s hand back into his lap and wordlessly moved to examine the gouge on Clay’s scalp. 

  
“I wish I had some cloth, or gauze, or something, to clean this up.” He said. 

  
Clay snorted.

  
“I doubt the guards would be okay with that.”

  
“Yeah… right” George chuckled.

  
He spent another few moments poking at Clay’s head before dropping back onto his haunches. 

  
“There is nothing more I can do with you down here,” He said.

  
Clay reached up and touched his head. George had picked out the pebbles and made a feeble attempt at pinching the skin back together. “Thank you.”

  
When George blinked, Clay was transported to his dreams, where those same eyes would smile at him from the skies. He bit his tongue to stop himself from blurting it all out; the last thing he needed was to scare the one nice person he had met off.

  
The sound of metal clad footsteps echoed from down the hall, making both men jump. George shot to his feet, and Clay scrambled to follow him.

  
“Just… wait, I’ll figure something out. Wait here.” George said, sliding the cell door between them. Clay pushed against the bars as George frantically gathered spilled crackers from the ground. He was halfway down the hall when Clay remembered the pitcher. 

  
“George!” He hissed, praying that the guards wouldn’t hear him. Their shadows had appeared on the wall. 

  
“What?” George whispered, turning around. 

  
“The pitcher!” Clay waved it through the bars. 

  
George muttered a curse and sprinted back down the hall, grabbing the pitcher. 

  
“George, thank you,” Clay said as he did. George flashed him a heart-stopping smile before taking off towards the door. 

  
Clay clambered back to the back corner. Closing his eyes, he pictured George’s smile again. It was so different, seeing him in his dreams, and seeing him in the real world. Clay touched his injured hand gently, recalling how soft George’s fingers were. He couldn’t remember having felt smoother skin. His mind produced George’s softly illuminated face, leaning in as he touched the wound on Clay’s head. Soft lips, parted slightly, as he chewed one in concentration, eyelashes flickering slightly as those enchanting eyes took in the damage, the way George’s breath raised goosebumps on Clay’s cheek. Clay felt a pit forming in his stomach.

  
Metal clanging against stone tore Clay from his fantasy. The pair of guards walked by, chatting quietly. Clay froze while they passed, praying they would not notice something minutely wrong that would expose everything. 

  
Just when he thought they had gone, he heard their conversation lapse. Clay strained his ears. 

  
“Ey, Watson, did you leave this torch here?”

  
George had forgotten the torch. Clay groaned internally. 

  
“No,” Watson responded. 

  
“Weird.”

  
“It was probably Day Shift. They’ve got that idiot, Kern.” Said Watson. The other guard laughed shortly. 

  
“You’re right.” 

  
Clay let the air escape through his painfully cracked lips as the guards retreated, taking the light with them. 

  
His eyes adjusted slowly to the pitch around him until he could make out the vague shapes of the cell. In the corner opposite from him, there was a bed of molding hay. Once, Clay figured, it had served as a crude bed. Or maybe it was a bathroom, he could not tell. The buns had done little to stave off his hunger, and his intestines gave a hopeful pang at the thought of George returning. 

  
George… he hadn’t said when he would come back. But surely he would. Clay just had to trust him. 

  
The pain from his hand, his head, and the many other bruises began spotting in Clay’s vision. Laboriously, he dropped into a heap on the ground, resting his head on the dirt. His bones ached with injury and cold. Even in the dark, he could see his breath forming tiny clouds. Clay shivered, tucking in on himself, trying to retain any heat he could.   
It seemed impossible that he could sleep in such a miserable state, and with so much on his mind, but after God knows how long, the release came. Clay felt his body relax, and his mind began slipping into unconscious freedom. 

A meadow extends before Clay. Birds sing in the trees, and bees hum as they float around flowers. Betwixt it, a small dirt path weaves through tangled grass. Clay sits by it, one hand rests on his guitar. His body feels weightless. Behind him, clear laughter sparkles through the air. He turns to see his friends, all of them. They sit by a massive fire passing around heaping plates of food. Smiles gleam on each of their faces. Next to them, their wagon sits at the ready. Rosetta grazes by its side. Clay stands, reaching to them, calling to them. Nick turns, smiling, and motions him closer.

  
“Clay, you made it!” He shouts cheerfully. 

  
Clay attempts to step, but his feet will not listen. 

  
“I can't move!” Clay yells.

  
Something wraps around his wrist. 

  
“Clay?” George’s voice is soft and sweet. His eyes glow with unbearable sadness. 

  
“George?” 

  
“Please don’t leave me, Clay.” George raises his hand and points towards a glistening castle perched above faraway mountains.

  
“Are you coming?” Clay hears Karl shout. When he turns back around, the fire has vanished, and his friends are sitting on the wagon. Their backs are to the mountains, and Clay knows that their greener fields lay in the opposite direction. 

  
He takes a step towards them, ready to chase them down and join in on their song. But George’s voice stops him. 

  
George stands far from him now, in the field. He wears a white suit with a flowing cape that whips around in the wind.

  
“Clay, please, please, don’t leave me here alone.” He begs. A crystal tear drips down his cheek. 

  
Clay feels his heart tearing in two. He can not leave George, but he can’t live without his friends. How could he possibly choose?

  
“Bye, Clay!” He hears Wilbur yell. They’ve disappeared into the horizon, their singing echoing off the trees. 

  
“Goodbye, Clay,” George whispers, his voice carried on the breeze. 

  
Clay stands alone in the meadow, which no longer seems tranquil. The birds are screaming as the bees swarm in the growing gale. Every flower has grown menacing thorns and now creeps around his ankles, rooting him to the spot. He cries for help, for anyone who will listen, for his Mom. But no one comes. 

  
Alone, Clay falls to his knees, letting the vines ensnare him and drag him to the earth. Oxygen is squeezed from his lungs as he sobs for all that he has lost. Visions of George. His friends. His Mom, braiding her hair in the dawn light, and his father’s laugh. 

  
Nick. Karl. Wilbur. Phil. George. 

  
George.

  
George.

  
George. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hihiihihihihihih  
> bit of a short, angsty chapter for today. will be posting longer ones as soon as i write them :P  
> i start school next Monday so it might take me a bit longer.  
> I'm so grateful for all the kudos and comments, it really means the world to me that anyone is even reading this, so thank you, thank you, thank you.  
> please continue to show ur support if you enjoy it, and have a great day!  
> -clem  
> ps. i really do not understand how formatting works on ao3 so bear with me, eventually, I will figure it out :)  
> edit: pps. out of curiosity, do you guys prefer shorter chapters more frequently or longer chapters less frequently? no promises either way, but lmk! :)


	7. Chapter 7: Firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is hatched

George didn’t return the next day or the day after that. Not that Clay would have noticed, as he spent most of it slipping between the meadow and the cold of his cell. Upon regaining consciousness, every nerve in his body seemed to flare up in protest. Throbbing pain radiated from every scratch, burning to the touch. 

Hunger toyed with his intestines, making them writhe and moan of their own volition, and a terrible thirst graced his lips. The only relief was when he would place his fingers to his lips, letting blood saturate them momentarily before the copper flavor became too much and he would heave, dryly onto the floor. 

Clay had never considered himself to be particularly weak-minded, despite his anxieties, but the pain of his reality made it agonizingly hard not to wish for sleep. At least, in his head, he was with the people he loved. Even though his dreams often turned into gut-wrenching nightmares. 

He was in the middle of a particularly nasty dream when the distant sound of metal hitting the floor roused him. The light burned his eyes, as he had grown accustomed to the dark only being split by the guard shifts. Still delirious, Clay made his best attempt to assess the situation. An angel stood, bathed in golden light, reaching their loving arms towards him. Clay smiled at the fuzzy image. The angel was speaking. If he trained his eye, he could see their perfect lips shaping perfect words. But they said something foreign. 

Slowly, the angel stepped forward, and if it were not for his physical state, Clay would have leaped into their reach, joyously crying out for a God he did not know he believed in. As they approached, their features became less distorted, their voice fell octaves, and the dialect began slipping into the familiar tongue. 

“Clay?” They called. 

Clay made an attempt to respond, but his body was too weak. He instead focused on smiling and nodding his head. 

“Clay, sit up,” The angel was so close Clay could have touched them. There was nothing more in the world that he wanted than to obey, but his limbs seemed frozen in their fetal pose. 

Understanding, the angel dropped down beside him, their fingers entwining themselves around his arms and slowly pulling him back and against the wall. Their hair brushed his cheek as they leaned in to adjust his arm, and the smell of linden trees filled Clay’s senses. Something about their touch was nauseatingly familiar, but they retreated to the hall, and Clay couldn't place who they were.

It was exhausting just to keep his eyes open as he watched the figure move about the hall. They gathered a variety of things from the floor before returning to the cell. They spoke softly, coaxing Clay’s mouth open and filling it with sweet water and bread. Clay let them do as they pleased. The edges of his vision were already fading into the murky pitch. But their voice was incessant. Every time he rolled his head back to rest, they would raise their volume, shaking him back into reality. 

The food and water helped clear Clay’s mind. Bit by bit, his consciousness returned, allowing him to piece himself back together. Once he found himself to be thinking clearly, he turned to the angel to thank them. 

George’s large, brown eyes greeted him. 

“George?” Clay asked. 

“Oh my God, Clay,” George sputtered. 

“George? Where’d, where did the…” Clay trailed off, realizing what had happened. 

“Where did what?” 

“Nothing, sorry,” He looked down at the food by George’s side, “um, thank you.” 

“It’s fine, really,” George hesitated, picking the skin off his nails. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have left you here for so long; I just… I didn’t know, but I’m here, and I think I have a plan to fix everything, but... I need more time.” 

Clay stared at George in silence. More time? He had only been gone for two days, and Clay had nearly died. 

“How much longer?” 

It was George’s turn to stare, but his gaze fixed onto the ground. 

“I don’t know.” He mumbled. His fingers absentmindedly trailed down Clay's wrist, nails leaving soft pink lines on the dull flesh. 

“Okay… Can you explain the plan, then?” Asked Clay, voice hitching as George took his hand back. Surprised, George jerked up, his brows knit closely, scrutinizing Clay’s face. 

“You’re not mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad,” Clay let out a wheezing laugh, “I mean, what choices do I have; trust you, or die here?”

“Right.” George sighed. His eyes wandered away from Clay’s, giving him the feeling that George was not used to talking about his ideas.

“How are the others?” Clay asked, hoping that talking about something less intense would get George at ease. 

“I saw them yesterday; they are good. They miss you, though— of course.” George responded. He traced a thin finger through the dust, making a small circle. 

“They said that?” 

“Well, no, but they asked about you. Karl found some of his birds. According to him, he had to bribe a nun who’d fallen in love with one. Oh, and Wilbur was able to get his guitar repaired.”

“That’s great, George. Thank you.” Said, Clay. Around the circle, George drew small lines until a sun gleamed from the floor. 

“Well, it is my fault you’re here; it’s the least I could do.” He said back. George’s voice was saturated with self-loathing. Clay’s heart pulled towards him… If only he could tell George just how incredible he was. But he couldn’t risk it. Instead, Clay tried a different approach. 

“Not all of it; I shouldn’t have fallen into your tent. And I definitely shouldn't have tried to fight the guards when they pulled me off.” 

George smiled. Clouds joined the sun, shapeless blobs marking a sunny day. 

“Okay. Maybe not  _ all _ of it was my fault. But, still, this shouldn’t have gotten so out of hand.” 

“You’re telling me.” 

Clay took another slice of bread from the basket, adorning it with sausage from a small paper bag. In one motion, he shoved the whole sandwich into his mouth. Cheeks puffing, he grinned at George, letting some of the food fall into his lap. George recoiled with a laugh. 

“That is disgusting. Drink something, you’ll choke.” 

“Wow. So you’ll stick your fingers into my bloody head, but my chewing makes you gag?” Clay teased, swallowing the bread.

George shot him a warning look— daring him to keep speaking. The combination of annoying fire and honeyed eyes made Clay’s finger’s twitch. He licked his lips and dropped his own eyes to the sun and clouds. George had drawn two stick-figure birds soaring freely through the image. 

“Speaking of, I ought to check those,” George said, suddenly.

“Okay.” Clay managed. 

Tentatively, George lifted Clay’s hand to his eyes. He worked in silence. Every touch made Clay’s body light up with an unfamiliar but delicious energy. It was not unlike his anxieties, but somehow Clay found himself relishing in the bubbling below his skin rather than tearing himself apart to get rid of it. The boiling only grew as George leaned in to examine his head. Icy fingers skated across Clay’s burning skin, their wake soothing his pain with inexplicable ease. 

George began murmuring about what he saw— his voice dripped into Clay’s veins warming him from the inside out. Most of the words he used were exceedingly complicated medical terms that Clay didn’t understand, but George made them sound like music. 

He ultimately came to the same verdict as he had when he had first looked; that is, he couldn’t do much for Clay other than to try and keep the wounds remotely clean. At least, he said, they seemed to be on track to heal and, miraculously, had yet to get infected. As George worked, they struck a conversation about trivial things. George told Clay about the weather, what he had read that day, and about Nick, Karl, Wilbur, and Phil. Clay, in turn, decorated the air with his memories from the road. He quietly sang some of his favorite songs, which made George’s eyes light up with wonder. Time slipped by as they spoke. George’s torchlight flickered ominously low, the fuel nearly spent, but neither man cared. 

“... and then, they didn’t even catch the fish!” Clay laughed. George was snickering quietly, resting against the wall. 

“You’re joking.” 

“Am not!” Clay said, indignantly, “Both of them fell in after it, and we didn’t even get dinner!” 

“That’s incredible.” 

George took a sharp breath. Clay raised a brow at him. 

“I need to tell you something.” 

“Oh?” Clay could tell from the shift in George’s tone that it was something serious. He rotated towards George’s smaller frame, trying to seem genuine and reassuring. 

“My father still thinks you’re an assassin.” 

“Okay… and?” 

“And he’s trying to give you the death sentence,” George said. Clay’s blood went cold, “But! But, I have a plan, and you’re going to be fine, it’ll work.” 

Clay licked his lip, trying to find something to say. He searched George's face— red light glinted off his pale skin. His dark eyes swirled with hidden thoughts and emotions. Clay felt compelled to trust him. With quivering lips, he asked. “What is it?” 

“Okay. You’re going to have to trust me, though.” 

George explained his plan animatedly, getting more and more frantic as he continued. And, while it still seemed nearly impossible, George seemed to have thought of everything. Clay’s stomach hurt at the thought, but he knew that George was right; he had to get out, or he would definitely die. He knew that George was also risking a lot just to help him— his head throbbed thinking about what could happen if they got caught. Their conversation was interrupted, again, by the guard shift. George gathered the leftover food and ran out of the cell. With a grin, Clay reminded him to take the torch this time. 

“I’m really tired of finding you close to death, so please don’t be, next time,” George said, breathlessly, his fingers wrapped around the bars as he tugged the door closed. Clay nodded obediently. 

He darted away towards the exit, shirt flapping, and torch spouting embers. Clay pressed his face to the bars. Their metal cooled his flushed cheeks— he had warmed up while talking to George. With renewed confidence, Clay returned to the corner. If George’s plan was really to work, he would need to save his energy. 

The bubbling energy returned as he began thinking about George’s plan. His hands had flailed as he spoke, fingers thin and delicate. His eyelashes twitched and fluttered with every breath. Clay wasn’t embarrassed to admit that George was beautiful. But as ants crawled below his skin, Clay wondered if it meant more than just an observation. He had never been so invested in another person, but when you dream about someone every day, what other option did he have? Surely the electricity in his veins was just the result of a dream coming true, nothing more. 

He stands in the meadow, pleading for George to come with him. The vines are heavy on his soul. Thorns cut into his flesh, and blood runs like rivers through the grass. George doesn't hear him. His eyes are glued at the sky, watching turbulent grey clouds battle one another. Wind tears through the glade, pulling at Clay’s hair and clothes. George looks serene, bathed in filtered sunlight. 

Clay heaves, filling his lungs with scorching air. He raises his voice once more, bellowing George’s name.

George turns. His brow is creased, he opens his mouth, shouting something Clay can’t hear. 

“What?” Clay screams. 

George shouts again; this time Clay hears it faintly.

“Clay, wake up!” 

Clay is confused. Wake up? He is awake, surely. This is his world— the meadow— this is home. 

“Wake up, please!” 

There’s a pressure on Clay’s skin. Someone is shaking him— hard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god! over 100 kudos! I actually cried when we hit that (I've had a stressful week shh). All I can say is thank you, thank you, thank you. all I could've hoped for is people to read my work, and it is astounding that people like it, too. this chapter, and the upcoming chapters, will probably be on the shorter side so that I can actually get something posted. College is stressful, especially now, so if anyone else is struggling I wish you all the best! I love absolutely each and every one of you so much, thank you for reading. As per usual, no clue when the next one will be out but we can hope soon.  
> love, love, love,   
> clem <3  
> p.s. the comments also made me cry, it's so nice to interact with readers and see that it's real people reading.


	8. Chapter 8: Toothless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George comes to a conclusion that could ruin everything

Agony had become George’s closest companion. It threaded through his muscles, plunging claws of guilt into the sinew. At night, dread crept into the space in his bed and whispered curses into his ears. Knowing that Clay was alone, hurt, and counting on him, in a dirty cell, while he lay amongst a sea of satin pillows, was enough to make George want to scream from the towers. 

His routine had become monotonous. Every day, he would sneak from the castle walls and visit the others in their hotel room. They’d traverse the city, buying lost items or checking on repairs. Phil, Nick, Karl, and Wilbur did a good job at keeping their worries quiet, but they wouldn’t even greet him before asking about Clay. 

Clay was another story. George did his best to visit him as often as possible, but the guard shifts were tightly structured, and he struggled to find times where he could slip by unnoticed. He would never tell it to Clay, but George worried about the state of his wounds. One of Clay’s fingers had gone a concerning shade of red overnight, and without a doctor and proper cleaning, George suspected gangrene. Clay was also rapidly losing body mass. The strong man who had entered the dungeon was already becoming feeble and threadbare. Despite the ever-present smile on his pale lips and the cocky attitude which always returned after a few bites of food, George could see the exhaustion in Clay’s eyes. He needed to do something and fast before it became impossible to wake Clay from his hibernation. 

George sighed, trying to banish the thought of Clay as a corpse from his mind. He gathered up his bag of food, the pitcher of water, and tried to look regal.

Minx had left earlier that week, which had been a flurry of royal celebrations and grandeur. She had barely spoken to him since the circus, except to wish him well at the final banquet. Instead, Minx had switched verbal conversation for questioning looks and odd stares, making George feel like a small animal trapped in a bird’s claw, or perhaps some silly bug under a magnifying lens. Either way, she knew something George didn’t. 

Wooden heels clicked a steady rhythm along the cobbled floor. Leather shuffled along with linen as George took long strides, avoiding particularly loud stones and wooden beams. Shadows stretched out on the walls, twisting and contorting with every movement. Their charcoal silhouettes made George jump with every turn— reminding him that despite the echoing silence, he was not alone. Bookcases and tapestries morphed into guards and servants, and a tall torch stood similarly to his eighth-year literature tutor. Smoke from his own torch made his lungs burn as he walked, but at least the burning fat masked the smell which wafted from the door. Luckily, after a few visits, George had adapted— but for the first minute, it was still a shock. 

Alongside the smells came the cold, which tore through the smallest cracks in the walls and made his teeth chatter. Fire, however, filled George’s chest when he thought of Clay. There was nothing he would not do for him. Though, despite spending every waking minute wondering about it, George couldn’t place why. Even with the caked blood and mud, Clay’s eyes shone with every smile. His chapped and cracked lips were never far from jokes and enchanting stories. Clay was magnetic, and George was a loose screw. 

It was just the combination of being needed and guilt, George decided as he shoved the dungeon door open with his shoulder. Water splashed over the edge of the pitcher, making his shirt cling to his ribs. Icy wind followed quickly, stinging his skin. George made his way quickly down the familiar halls, numb to the other prisoner’s cries— if he stopped to help them every time, he would never be able to help Clay, or at least, that’s what he told himself. 

Clay was in his usual corner. His eyes were closed but moved, rapidly below the pale lids. His hair was matted down to his cheeks and stubble beard. Soundlessly, his mouth pleaded. Thankfully, he looked better than the last time George had seen him— when he had been completely collapsed and pale, unmoving and barely breathing save a few desperate gasps. George dug out the key he had stolen from his pocket and forced it into the rusted lock, which rasped loudly in protest. Another good sign, at the noise Clay, lifted one eyelid curiously. His grey eye swept, blinded by the light before he finally saw George. One of his easy, charming, and devastating smiles drifted onto his face, making George’s face uncomfortably warm. Shakily, George focused on opening the metal bars and getting past them as quietly as possible. That proved to be even more difficult than inserting the key, as somehow the bars had gotten stuck on a stone and scraped loud enough to make sparks fly out. Wincing, George stumbled into the cell and tugged them closed behind him. 

Clay reached his good arm towards George, clamping down on the bag he extended. Greedily, he dug through it, stuffing bread and cheese into his mouth. Chewing for a second before dryly swallowing. Crumbs rained as he spoke. 

“Hello, Princess.” He said. George choked on his spit.

“What the hell did you just say to me?” He asked, sliding down against the wall. Clay laughed. 

“I dunno, just thought I’d try it out. I mean, you’re pretty scrawny, you could fit into one of those frilly dresses.” 

George looked at him, mouth agape, watching as he took a bite from a whole smoked sausage. 

“Come on, give me something, I’m a dying man!” Clay dropped the sausage into his lap and used his hand to push George’s chin up. George pulled away, laughing, shocked. 

“I come here, every day, and feed your sorry bones, and you call me _scrawny_?” He asked. Clay giggled. “Have you seen yourself?” George continued. “You practically look dead, already! Maybe I’ll just stop coming, see how that suits you?” 

“No, no, no, I’d miss the confidence-building conversation too much. I would have to break out. Come find you, maybe finish my botched assassination.” 

Rolling his eyes, George motioned for Clay’s hand. 

“Not a chance, inmate.” He murmured, taunts dying in his throat as he saw the state of Clay’s fingers. Dark pus had begun leaking from the wounds, emitting a foul smell. One glance at Clay’s face assured that it was as painful as it looked. Fear pulsed in George’s ears. He knew what this meant, and even if Clay didn’t, the escape plan could not wait. Tomorrow, George decided, he would go and prepare the others, and they would be gone by the following morning. Clay would be gone. And things would go back to how they were supposed to be. He would marry Minx, he’d have a kid or two, and he’d die. Life would go on without Clay, even if he was swallowing back tears at the thought. There was no other option, though. If Clay didn’t leave and get medical help, he would die, no question. 

“Is it that bad, Princess?” Clay asked, cautiously pulling his hand back. 

“Shut it. No, you’ll be okay.” George sighed, wiping his hand on Clay’s thigh and earning himself a glare. “We just have to move our plan up. I’m breaking you out tomorrow.” 

It was Clay’s turn to stare. 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Yes,” George said, feigning confidence— praying that the crease on his brow and the slight waver in his voice would miss Clay. 

“Do the others know?” Asked Clay. 

“No, but I am going to tell them first thing. Don’t worry— it will all be okay.” 

Clay snorted. “Really?” 

George didn’t bother responding, slouching down until his shoulder pressed into the other man. Their breaths became one, chests rising and falling, shallowly in unison. Unbeknownst to them, their heartbeats, too, aligned into one pulsing system. The silence surrounding them was comfortable, not empty or anxious, as they simply enjoyed one another’s presence. Above him, George could hear Clay humming something euphoniously, the gentle vibrations traveling through his shoulder and straight to George’s heart. He wondered, idly, what thoughts were playing behind the stormy, citrus eyes. Time slipped by all too quickly, Clay’s fingers busily messed with George’s sleeve hem, twisting the fibers around his knuckles and tugging on the frayed edging. Blankets of exhaustion weighed George’s eyelids until it was unbearable to keep them open any longer. 

“Tell me a story.” He murmured. The primal urge to seek heat took over, and despite his conscious protests, George tucked himself closer into Clay’s side. Clay chuckled, lifting his arm to wrap around the prince. 

“Who’s the scrawny one now, eh?” George jammed his finger into Clay’s ribs, making him double. “Ow, ow, alright. Let’s see, have I told you about the time Phil set Wilbur’s hair on fire?” 

George shook his head. “Okay, well, I was sleeping, so this is what Nick told me— because he was awake because he usually makes breakfast for us. Anyways, I was sleeping, and Nick and Karl— Karl was awake too, I think, maybe he was in the process of waking up, or something. I don't know. Basically, Phil was helping Nick get the fire started, and Wilbur, well, I guess I should say this first…”

George dozed off, enjoying how detailed Clay’s stories always were. How, even with the tangents, he always proved to be the most excellent raconteur. When George woke, the torch had burnt itself to smoldering embers, cocooning the pair in secretive darkness. Unfamiliar energy pooled in George’s stomach at the thought of being alone with Clay, where no one could see them, and he found himself attempting to remain perfectly still— so as not to alert Clay that he had woken. Clay had pulled George flush to his side, pressing his cheek onto George’s head, where his breath made George’s hair ruffle. His attempts were in vain, though— Clay grunted and straightened, pulling their bodies apart and leaving a painfully cold void. 

“Are you awake?” He whispered. 

“Yes,” George replied, nudging him with his foot. “Are you?” 

“You passed out fast; are you tired?” 

“No more than usual— you’re just boring.” Teased George. 

“Right, which is why you keep coming here asking for stories, _princess_?” Clay quipped back. 

“Stop it.” George snickered, “I just feel bad for you. I wouldn’t sleep if I knew you were down here, rotting. I’m selfish, that way.” 

“Selfish. Right, whatever you say.” 

“Exactly. Don't get yourself confused.” Begrudgingly, George clambered to his feet. “Now that I am done easing my conscious, I will be taking my leave.” 

“Aww, poor guy can’t take a joke?” Clay passed him the now empty bag and pitcher. “At least let me walk you to the door.” 

Butterflies erupted in George’s ribcage as Clay grabbed onto his wrist, using him as a crutch to stand. It took a moment for Clay to get his footing, and he rested most of his weight on George, arm snaking around his waist. Dramatically, he flung his arm towards the exit. 

“To the door!” He cried, which made George snicker harder. 

Together they shuffled to the bars, where Clay shifted to prop against them. The last flickering embers illuminated his broad smile and flashing eyes. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He said, voice barely audible. His tone conveyed a million things unsaid, but George tried not to dwell on them— he was probably exaggerating, for effect. 

“Tomorrow,” George replied over the sound of grating metal. 

When the door finally split them, George found himself hesitating, fingers glued to the rusting metal, and heart glued to Clay’s. Reading his mind, Clay leaned past the bar, pressing towards him and closing the distance between them. George clamped his eyes shut, instinctively, as he felt Clay’s fingers trailing through his hair and down his jaw. Instantaneously, Clay pulled back. 

“You had some— erm, dust, or something, in your hair.” He explained, clearing his throat as he flicked the minuscule rubble to the floor. 

“Right.” George was grateful for the darkness, which hid the blush erupting on his face and neck— what on _earth_ had he been expecting. “Okay, I’ll see you… Goodnight.” 

Clay called his response down the hall, but George had already sprinted off. Thunder pounded in his ribs, thoughts raced across his mind, flying too fast to be perceived and ricocheting off of one another in a symphony of chimeric dreams. Clay’s touch burned on George’s skin, jaw studded with stinging neurons, his voice hung heavy in the air, smothering in the most comforting ways. 

By the time George reached his room, he was practically in tears, teeth-gnashing against his cheeks in vain attempts to calm his heart. The love bursting in his chest felt almost too much, and at that moment he understood why Clay threw himself at the wall to try and tear it out. Slamming his door behind him, George slid down against it, intertwining his fingers in his hair viciously. A selfish voice in his head screamed not to let Clay leave. Alone, the tears began stinging down his skin and mixing with the mud on his cheeks. 

Clay was his dream. His imperfections were perfect, to George. How could he let him leave after so many years of pining? But how could he let him stay and wither into a husk of himself in a disgusting cell? To make him stay would be a death sentence, but to let him leave would kill George. Sobs tore through George’s body, making his throat ache and nose run messily. He was reminded of when his mother had died— the agonizing pit which had opened in his stomach was just the same. And he was sure he hadn’t cried so hard since. It was foolish, he thought bitterly, climbing to his feet so he could stare hatefully in the mirror, that a grown man could cry so hard about another man. This sort of pain should be exclusive to widowed women, mothers who have lost children, and children themselves— not crown princes and jailed troubadours. 

George wiped his cheeks clean, steadying his breath laboriously. He had to do what was right— and what was right in this situation was helping Clay escape. Slowly, George pulled his clothes off, exposing his pale skin to the glass, scrutinizing the reflection. George had never loved himself; he was scrawny— like Clay had said— with gangly limbs that seemed to stick out at funny angles. His dark hair had never translated to his chest or arms, making him feel childlike whenever he would change around others. The idea of loving a man-made him sick— it was unnatural, something George had never considered, never been permitted to imagine… but it made sense. Even as a child, George had never been interested in the pretty servant girls like the other boys in his weapons training, he had always found himself lingering as he watched the knights train, not only to watch technique but to watch _them._

This realization was liberating and devastating at the same time and left George wondering if he was alone in this predicament. No one had ever presented this option, and as he crashed into bed, he spitefully relished in another thing that made him _wrong_. He found himself wondering what Clay would say to this. With a charming, chiseled face like his, he surely had had many women offer themselves to him. George could imagine the disgust coiling in Clay’s eyes, repulsion as he shoved George away, screamed at him to leave him to die. Tears returned, and George eased into a fitful sleep.

He woke the next morning, entirely unrested, his night plagued with shouted curses and visions of his dying mother morphing into a snake, which chased him and squeezed him until his breath stopped cold. Regardless, he rose and called for his servants to aid him in bathing and dressing, which took a disgustingly long amount of time and involved never-ending decisions between one shade of yellow and another. George was never sure why his designer was obsessed with shades of yellow and blue— or why there were so many names for the same colors. Yet, daily he was done up in meticulously detailed navy and golden suits. Breakfast was also brought to him while he dressed, but Geroge couldn't stomach the eggs and meat and instead called for some fruits, which he choked down to maintain face. 

George had hoped that by the time he was freed by the swarm of frantic servants that his father would have grown bored of waiting and started their meetings without him. But as soon as George left his room he was ambushed by another servant, who marched him straight to the great hall and into his throne. 

The King had originally planned to leave for King Eret’s kingdom soon after Minx’s departure. With the assassination attempt, however, he had decided to wait until after Clay’s execution. George figured that the easiest way to break Clay out would be to wait until after his father left— but Clay’s hand could not wait; he needed a doctor. Much to George’s good fortune, a letter had arrived overnight, requesting that the King leave that very day in lieu of some militant action in Eret’s land. When he learned of this, George had to force his excitement down by digging his nails into his palms painfully hard— it would be much easier to smuggle Clay out if the guard was distracted trying to safely help the King. 

After the meetings, George excused himself rapidly and raced to the city, sprinting past the guard towers and wall with an apologetic shout over his shoulder. Carried by an unseen force, George flew to the inn, where he promptly collided with Phil. 

Gasping, George explained the predicament, lungs burning. Phil didn’t say anything, just nodded slowly and went to tell the others, who came out crankily rubbing their eyes at the apparent early start. 

“Are we really going to see Clay tonight?” Nick asked as he led George to the blacksmiths on a final errand. 

“If all goes well,” George replied. His lips were coated with sticky caramel which Wilbur had forced upon him. 

“It feels strange, like… I dunno… I almost don’t want to leave.” Said Nick, so softly that if George hadn’t been listening, the crowd would have drowned it out. 

“Really?” 

“I mean… I miss Clay, obviously, and I want to kill the people that did this to him— no offense.” 

“None taken.” 

“But, like, I guess I’ll miss seeing you and getting to eat and buy whatever I want. Hell, even sharing a bed with Karl isn’t so bad.” 

“It’s not?” 

Nick laughed.

“Okay, he talks in his sleep and wakes me up flailing, but… I guess what I’m trying to say… Thank you, y’know, for not being a massive prick and killing Clay.” 

“Nice to know you hold me to the standards of being a decent human being.” 

“Shove off, you know what I mean.” Nick punched George’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I do.” 

The pair turned into the blacksmith, a dusty, fat building that periodically belched soot from the windows and doors. Nick motioned for George to go first and wincing at the abrasive air, followed him in.

“We’re here to pick up an order,” George said, tentatively to the burly man standing near the back door. 

“An order? What kind?” The smith asked, stepping forward into the dim light filtering through the skylight. Clearly, George’s royal disposition did not affect the man, as he spat on the floor. 

“Erm— Gymnastic poles?” 

A swift smile graced the smith’s cracked lips. 

“Ah… yes, the gymnasts. Fine work, if I do say. I’ll fetch them now.” 

The man heaved himself out the back, whistling a tune. Nick giggled at something, and when George turned to ask what motioned to the phallic shape he had drawn on the floor with his boot. Rolling his eyes and chiding him, George stamped it out, suppressing his own laughter. Moments later, the smith returned, two large metal beams resting on his shoulder. 

“Where would you like em’?” He asked. 

Nick and George exchanged a glance, they had not thought to bring Rosetta or the cart with them. 

“No cart?” Asked the smith, as if reading their mind. 

“Oh… No, sorry. Is there one we can rent?” George replied. 

“For an extra five, I’ll have my boys bring ours around if that suits you?” 

“That would be great.” 

“Wonderful. I’ll go rouse them if you’ll hold these.” The smith carefully passed the beams to Nick, who nearly doubled over under the weight. 

“Son of a bitch, how does Clay set these up on his own?” He hissed as the smith vanished to the back of the store once more. George just shrugged. Followed by two young boys and a pretty woman carrying a baby, the smith came stomping back in. 

“This here is Winnie,” He said, gesturing to his wife before clapping both boys on the back. “And these are my boys, Tom and Toby, and the baby is Ran.” 

“Pleasure to meet you all,” George said politely. Nick gave a curt nod. The taller of the two boys, Tom, gave George a sharp look before pointing directly at him. 

“Is it true that you’re the prince?” He asked. George chuckled as his mom swiftly hit him over the head. 

“Be polite, Tom. Go help your father.” 

“But Mum, I _was_ being polite, I was only asking a question, you say that’s a good thing!” 

“He’s right Mum, you do say that is a good thing,” Toby said softly. Winnie gave an exasperated sigh, shoving the boys towards their father and simultaneously sending George an apologetic look. 

“Not now, boys, please?” She said. Grumbling, Tom let himself be led out of the store, following Nick. 

“Ever so sorry about that.” Said Winnie. George laughed. 

“It’s no problem, really. And, as you said, it’s good to ask questions.”

Winnie smiled, motioning to the register. The baby on her back let out a whimper, and she tiredly tugged her wrap around so that she could look at her son. 

“That’s an interesting name, Ran,” George said awkwardly. Even he could see the complete adoration on Winnie’s face, and he wondered if his mother had looked like that too. 

“Oh, yes, it’s really just a nickname, but when Toby was younger, he couldn’t pronounce Robert, so he said Ranboo.”

“They seem like handfuls,” 

Winnie snorted, her deft fingers sifted through work orders, looking for George’s. 

“That is an understatement.” She produced the slip, handing it over to George. At the same second, something fell, loudly outside, followed by a bunch of shouting. “That Tom runs me straight into the ground, and Toby will follow him anywhere.” 

George glanced up at her. Even below the bags and dust on her face, and her scornful tone, he could feel her love. Chewing his tongue, he went back to counting out the sum from his coin purse. 

“Are they twins?” He asked as another crash made the building shake, and Ran let out a cry. 

“Yes, Toby’s older, but you wouldn’t think it unless you saw them fighting,” Winnie said. With experienced ease, she produced a pacifier for the struggling baby, muting him. 

George handed over the payment, not mentioning the sizable tip he had left until Winnie saw it for herself and tried to refuse. Feigning bizarre and unpredictable deafness, George darted out of the shop before she could force the money on him.

Nick and the smith had roped down the poles to the sides of a large cart, upon which stood Tom and Toby, grinning ear to ear. 

“Are you _really_ going to go all the way around the world?” Toby was asking, his expression one of pure disbelief. 

“As long as the weather is good, of course!” Nick replied.

“Have you ever seen bandits?” Asked Tom. 

“I have, but I fought them off with one hand.” 

“No way!” Both boys cried, eyes gleaming. 

“Tell you what, next time I see some, I’ll get their hats for you. How's that?” 

Glee erupted from the boys, both laughing and smiling so hard that their cheeks glowed red. 

“Mum, Mum, did you hear that?” Tom asked, leaping off the cart and throwing himself at Winnie, who had likely been drawn out by the ecstatic screams of her children. 

“Mr. Nick is going to bring us real-life bandit hats!” Toby followed suit, nearly toppling his mother with his excitement. 

“I did hear that, and I warn Mr. Nick, be careful, bandits are very tricky people, so I’ve heard,” Winnie replied, eyes dancing. 

George was taken aback, momentarily, by this simple family. A side-eye to the smith found a beaming man, eyes full of admiration and affection as he watched his most beloved wife and children. Their joy was palpable, despite their meager clothing and living. And the sick voice in his head returned, reminding him that he would never have such love without Clay. 

“Don’t bother them too much now, boys, please,” Winnie said, as she ushered Tom and Toby back to the cart. “And do drive slowly, I don’t want another report that you squashed one of Mr. MacIntire’s chickens.” 

“That was so gross.” Toby shuddered, taking up the reins. 

There was a brief quarrel over who got to drive, which was quickly silenced by Winnie, and with a wave and good wishes, the cart lurched forward. George and Nick sat next to the younger boys, answering the hail of questions about the road, and royal life. And by the time the two had arrived and unloaded their cargo, both George and Nick had been swindled into tours of the castle and promises of foreign goods. 

The boy's bickering could be heard as they rode off, each taking turns to wave frantically through the crowd, all toothless grins and elbows. 

Nick let out a low whistle. 

“God, if there was one thing to make you careful with women.” 

“You don’t like kids?” George asked, following him as he moved the poles to the troubadour's cart.

“Nah, I like them well enough, but to have my own? Not for another dozen years or more.”

“Oh.”

“What? You’d want a kid right now?” Nick gave him a look over his shoulder.

“It’s not like that, where I am from. I’ll be married, probably, within the year. And after that, it’s expected that you have kids, as many as possible.” 

“Then why aren't there more little George’s running around? Your parent's rebel or something?” 

“My mom died when I was about their age, nine, or ten.”

Nick looked up, clearly trying to discern whether or not George was joking. 

“Shit. Sorry, that sucks.” 

“It’s okay. She was sick a lot when I was little, so it wasn’t unexpected.” 

“Still sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Uncomfortable silence lapsed between the two, broken only by Nick’s grunting as he messed with the poles. 

“Do you want to get married? I mean, is the girl even hot, on such short notice?” Asked Nick. George blushed.

“I don’t know. And, yes, she is very pretty. She’s just… not my type, I guess.”

“Yeah? And what’s your type then?” Nick gave the poles a testing smack and frowned as they shifted. 

“Blond, I guess?” George tried, thinking about Clay. 

“Blondes are hot.” Nick agreed. “Me? I like girls, or guys, who make me laugh. Free spirits, that type.” 

George choked. His mind reeled at his sentence, and he fought to fill his air with lungs— Guys? 

“What?” He asked, wheezing as Nick came around to smack his back. 

“What d'ya mean what?” 

“Guys?” 

“Oh, shit, I forgot that you're a little royal bitch. Yes, George, some guys like guys too. And some girls like girls, and some people like everyone. It’s a big wide world, beyond those marble towers.” 

“You’re serious?” George leveled, staring into Nick's soul. 

“What? Quit being weird— of course, I’m serious. If you have a problem with it, tell someone else, I don't care.” Nick turned on his heel and marched back to the poles, George followed on his heels, feeling similar curious energy to Tom and Toby. 

“No, no, I don’t have a problem with it, really, I just…” George bit his lip, wondering if it was a bad idea to… “I didn’t realize other guys felt that way.” 

Nick froze, turning slowly to George.

“You mean… you?” 

George nodded. 

“Fuck, man.” Bursting into a smile, Nick grabbed George up in a hug. “Congratulations! You’ve never told anyone?” 

“I only found out, just now.” 

Nick gave him a knowing look.

“Wilbur.” He said. George contorted out of his arms.

“What? No!? Clay.” 

“Clay!?” 

Embarrassment flooded George’s cheeks, he hadn’t meant to say it like that.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” 

“Your secrets are safe with me, but, y'know, Clay? Really? My best friend? Gross.” 

George stuffed down a laugh. Nick went back to adjusting the poles, teasing him, periodically. Suddenly, he fell silent. 

“How is that going to work, with you getting married and all?” He asked quietly.

George had been so wrapped up in the euphoria of acceptance that he’d nearly forgotten about his other life. In a few simple words, the universe of hope and possibility crashed down around him. 

“I don’t know.” 

Nick hesitated. 

“Come with us. Runaway, with Clay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii
> 
> teeheee, where did I go?? anatomy homework got the best of me. so here, a long chapter! somehow writing George's pov is so much easier than Clay's. I hope everyone is doing super duper well, I just recovered from tonsillitis, so I'm pretty happy. I love y'all. I debated splitting this chapter, but it felt right to leave it the way it is. thank you for all the kudos, comments, and love!  
> -clem <3


	9. Chapter 9: Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devotion can be agony

Sweat beaded down the back of George’s neck. His mind flickered between possibilities, memories caging him in, debts owed. It would have been so easy to just agree with Nick, to run into the unknown, hand in hand with people who cared. But history tied him to the ground, rooting him in responsibility. 

  
George recalled his father’s face when he learned of his wife’s death— it had crumpled, an agonized groan heaving from his lungs as he clung to George. How could he possibly abandon his father like that? Even with the more questionable decisions he had made, the King had always loved George and done his best to make him happy and comfortable. It was easier, he thought, to turn down Nick and do as was expected. Even if it made his soul sour and his eyes water. 

  
He had been sitting, a statue of poise and dignity, for hours, as his father prepared to leave. The King flitted about the various bags, checking and rechecking their contents, ordering servants to move and reorganize the luxurious clothes and gifts. Spouting gruff reassurances the whole time— the King painted a dismal world beyond the walls, assuring George that he would much rather stay home, but, alas, duty called. 

  
After another half hour of shuffling, the King finally seemed satisfied and allowed the servants to carry the bags out to the carriages. Most of the luggage was filled with gifts, so his trip to Eret’s would be slower than the return, as they’d have to pace the horses. George followed his father down the stairs, hugging him a tight goodbye before helping the aging man into the most elaborately decorated carriage of all. Followed by four other royal wagons, and a dozen or more knights on foot and horse, the procession slowly moved out the gates. As they had when Eret and Minx arrived, church bells rang as it passed. George stood outside listening to their cheerful tunes until the bells became so distant he couldn’t make them out over the din of pedestrian traffic. 

  
For the rest of the day, George paced about his room, waving off the servants who tried to bring him food as he worried about Clay. As if taunting him, the sun seemed to hang perfectly still in the sky. Yet, eventually, it slipped behind the buildings, illuminating their crooked silhouettes, before finally vanishing and leaving the inky dark sky. Still, though, George paced.   
It was not until half-past three in the morning, that he finally deemed it silent enough on the streets to put his plan in motion. 

  
Catlike, George crept down to the dungeons, this time equipped with nothing but his hands. It was pitch black in the cells, but muscle memory took control, and George found himself walking steadily. 

  
“Clay?” He hissed when he thought he’d arrived at his destination. 

  
“George?” Clay whispered back. 

  
“It’s time, come here.” George unlocked the cell and pulled it open. Stumbling and trembling like a newborn foal, Clay emerged from the pitch. George could barely see his shape in the dark and instead felt for his hand. Gripping one another, Clay followed George to the hall. Grunting, they pulled the cell closed and locked it, once more. 

  
“Which way, Princess?” 

  
George ignored the comment and pulled Clay towards the cart exit. They hid behind sacks of oats while guards passed, pressed impossibly close to one another and barely breathing. When the coast was clear, they half-ran, half-limped out of the door and down the back roadway which led out the gates. George didn't breathe until they stood side by side, backs pressed against the cold stone walls. Faint stars glimmered through the city haze, their unwavering presence assuring George that this was the right choice. 

  
The guard posts were lit, suggesting that they were being attended, but from within George could hear faint snoring. He went first, creeping past the barred window, assuring that the guard was, in fact, asleep, before waving Clay through. Hunched, Clay ran towards George, crashing into him playfully and taking his hand once more as they hurried down cobbled roads towards the meeting location that Phil and George had picked. Lamps flickered warm lights as their shadows danced with one another, and their shoes skidded along the well-worn stones, stumbling on the uneven parts. Muffled laughter filled the air with each misstep, followed by hissed reprimands. 

  
“Wait, George.” Clay said suddenly, freezing in his tracks. George lurched forward, startled by the momentum. 

  
“What? Do you see someone?” He whispered, fear ebbing into his voice. 

  
“No, I just… I need to tell you something.” 

  
“Can it wait? We’re almost at the spot.” George asked, glancing at the building just a few more seconds away. 

  
“No.” 

  
“Okay, okay, what is it?” George sighed, turning to face Clay. 

  
“I dreamed about you.” Clay said. His voice was a whisper, but George felt each word dissolve in his blood, a queer bubbling began in his toes. “Before we met. I would dream about you, and your eyes, and I would feel safe.” George blinked at Clay, pierced by his words. “I probably sound crazy, but it’s true, George. With you I am myself, I can be who I want to be. You make me feel alive, and I don’t think I can live without you, knowing that you’re real.”

  
George clasped Clay’s bony fingers, suppressing tears that threatened to ruin his confident facade. He was never good with words. 

  
“That’s all?” He whispered. Clay drew close, pulling George’s arms to his chest, breath ghosting over George’s fair freckles, raising his skin with the tickling caress. 

  
“That’s all.” Replied Clay.

  
“I dreamed about you too. Your voice, your mouth, your scar.” 

  
“Come with me?” Clay attempted. George tugged back. 

  
“I can’t, Clay, you know I can’t.” George didn’t resist as Clay pulled him tighter.

  
“Then I’ll stay.” 

  
“People are waiting for you, they need you.” 

  
“You need me too.” Clay’s lips moved against George’s forehead. 

  
“I know.” 

  
George’s voice cracked, but he swallowed the pain down. The pair shared another moment of silence, though words were not needed to express how they felt. Pink sunlight began dusting the horizon, signaling the start of another day. 

  
“It’s okay, Clay— Go.” George urged, feebly pushing against the taller man’s breastbone. 

  
“I can’t see color, without you,” Clay murmured. “I can’t see, without you. I can’t breathe.” 

  
George didn’t respond, if he opened his mouth to speak, he wasn’t sure what he’d say. 

  
“Please?” Clay tried one last time. Defeat wracked through his voice as he shivered. George pressed into Clay’s embrace, filling his senses one last time. 

  
“Save the sweetest words for goodbye,” Said George, finally. “And, don’t feel guilty… just, go, and be brilliant.” 

  
Clay pulled back, eyes locking on George’s, glistening with tears. George attempted a feeble smile, shaking as it ran across his face. 

“Don’t forget about me, promise?” George whispered. 

  
Clay’s face shattered. “Oh, George,” was all he said before he was leaning in, connecting his lips to George’s, a million words said in a gesture. 

  
Electrical currents stung them both as George hesitantly pressed back, fingers trailing up to Clay’s hair, clinging for dear life. Instinctively, Clay’s hands dropped to George’s waist, dragging the prince closer, until they were separated only by their clothes. Tears dampened their lips, whos did not matter. Eyes closed, both fought to tell the other a lifetime's worth of love in an instant. The kiss was bittersweet, a promise of heartbreaking devotion, and left both gasping for air when they separated. Cheeks and lips damp, noses running, they clashed once more, this time aggressive need consuming both as their hands explored the other’s torsos, desperately attempting to memorize one another's touch. 

  
A sharp whistle interrupted the lovers, and they turned, fearfully, towards the sound. Nick waved from the back of the wagon, motioning them over. Hand in hand, George let himself be led over. Coldness enveloped him as Clay dropped his grip, throwing himself into Nick’s arms. One by one the other performers piled on top of them, crying, grinning, and slapping Clay on the back. George stood, alone, to the side, watching the scene, love aching in his chest. It was Wilbur who noticed him first, and without hesitation, drew George into the hug. Smothered in coarse fabric, shaggy facial hair, and sweat, George let himself weep. 

  
When they finally untangled themselves, he was sure that he had wrung out the last of the water in his body. George allowed the others to pack Clay into the wagon, waving slowly, as they chattered excitedly. Phil joined him by the side, resting a comforting, understanding arm on his shoulder. 

  
“You can change your mind, mate. Come with us, if you want?” 

  
“I know.” 

  
Phil glanced down at the prince.

  
“You love him.”

  
“I know.” 

  
The older man nodded, understanding, before shuffling off to the cart. George trailed behind him, walking up to the open window, where Clay sat, laughing about something. The blond’s expression completely changed, looking at George. He reached through the window, cupping George’s cheek. 

  
“George,” He said softly. His lemon eyes twinkled. 

  
“Clay,”

  
Gently, George went up on his toes, eyes fluttering shut, and connected their lips one final time. The wagon lurched into motion, forcibly pulling their mouths apart. 

  
Silent, agonizing tears flowed down George’s face freely as he watched the wagon slowly pull away. Clay remained, hovering, out the window until finally, the road curled behind a brush of trees, and he was gone. 

Hollow and alone, George turned back to the castle. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he went home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :P  
> hi,  
> very short chapter, I'm busy again (Two tests this week!!) and wanted to get something published. i hope yall are doing well! thank you for the love!
> 
> -clem :)


	10. Chapter 10: Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Separation tastes bitter

“How long did you say he was in the ravine for?” The Doctor asked, her eyebrow quirked skeptically. 

“Two weeks, ma’am.” Said Nick, quickly. The Doctor let out a snort in response, lifting Clay’s hand to inspect. 

Clay ignored them. Focusing his energy on the clouds outside, he wrathfully wished for them to collapse and crush them all in billowing white. They had departed the city a full four days earlier, and still, Clay couldn’t get the taste of George’s lips on his tongue. Every time he closed his eyes, George’s tear-filled eyes blinded him. Invisible hands ran across his back, short nails digging into his shirt and spine, and a soft, flowery scent soaked into Clay’s flesh. 

Phil had insisted that they put a significant distance between the potential man-hunt and their caravan, resulting in a fast-paced trek to one of Wilbur’s old friend’s cottage. From there, Phil and Wilbur set out, alone, to find a doctor. When they returned the following day, they brought with them a crooked lady with a beak-like nose and beady eyes who introduced herself only as ‘the Doctor’. The Doctor had subsequently spent the next two days by Clay’s bedside, brewing various potions and forcing them down his throat. Despite the taste and Clay’s distinct wish to die, the infection in his fingers had stopped its spread, and with each sunrise, he could feel strength returning to his bones. 

Nick, also, had barely left Clay’s side, save when he had to pee, or when Karl dragged him out to eat. Clay tried to be grateful— he knew that Nick was worried— but the constant chatter was exhausting. He wished that he could just lay there, staring at the sky, and curse whatever force had made the love of his life impossible.

When dark came, and the Doctor retreated to wherever she went at night, and Nick finally keeled over on his bed mat, Clay would watch the stars, twinkling and teasing him. As the shining lights hung above his head, Clay would find tears sliding down his cheeks and dampening his hair and pillow. He would wonder if George was doing the same, and the evil voice in his head would assure that he wasn’t. George was a prince, after all— he could, surely, find someone better to love. 

Something new, however, had occurred during his imprisonment. Now, whenever the small voice which spewed all things negative chimed in, it was followed by a much more reassuring response. The positive voice promised that George, too, was pining to the heavens. And it was a small comfort, to hope, to think, to pray, that somewhere beyond the pastures and prairies, George watched the same sky. 

“Mr. Clay?” the Doctor asked, shaking Clay’s wrist to get his attention. 

“What? Sorry, I spaced out.” 

“Yes, I noticed.” She said, through pinched lips. “Your friend and I were just discussing your hand. Perhaps you would like to join in with your thoughts?” 

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Said Clay, embarrassed. 

“Right. Now, Mr. Nick, you were saying that he was alone this whole time, yet I can see clear signs in the debridement that someone with medical knowledge has cleaned the injury. Mr. Clay is in no state to do so, and regardless—” The Doctor paused to give Clay a reproachful look. “I doubt that he has such high-level knowledge. So I ask, how is it possible that the wound is clean, without a doctor?” 

“I—Erm,” Nick stammered. 

“I looked at it, ma’am!” A voice chimed from the doorway. “And I brought you some clean bandages and a mug of that chamomile you love so much.” 

“Ah, thank you, my dear!” The Doctor’s voice softened as she welcomed Wilbur’s friend, Niki, into the room. 

Niki was a pretty, short woman, with soft blonde hair waving around her shoulders and a permanent blissful smile on her lips. She kept her hair tied back in a worn, pink, and flowery bandana. Matching the rosettes on her dress stylishly. On one hip, she rested a large basin of bandages, and in the other, held a steaming mug of tea. Nikki ran a small bakery in the nearby town, which was how Wilbur claimed to have met her, but the hushed discussions they had in foreign languages, and the looks on their faces when they saw each other, told a very different story. 

“Yes, sorry, I meant to tell you but it completely slipped my mind.” 

“No trouble, darling, none at all. You did an excellent job, here! Who taught you this? Certainly not me!” 

“My mum had an old medical book when I was little, I used to read it to fall asleep,” Niki said smoothly, handing the mug to the Doctor. “I hope you like the tea, I used some of the honey from that farm down by the river, remember? The triplets, back in March?” 

“The Reeding boys?” 

“No, they’re 3 now, ma’am. I meant the Mills’s three; Ann, Rhodes, and Sage?” 

“The ones with red hair?” 

“No, that’s McKenzie, they’ve not had triplets yet.” 

The pair went on bickering and, it seemed to Clay that the Doctor must have delivered every child within a hundred-mile radius, as the family names piled on. Finally, Niki broke and just told the Doctor that her guess was right so that she would return to her duty. Continuing her praises to Niki, the Doctors nimble and wrinkled hands redressed his hand in honey, garlic, and echinacea bandages. 

Clay glared at the sun. Nick and Niki chatted softly about something that didn’t matter. The Doctor came and went, the bandages dried and dampened, the world flowed around Clay and his bedframe island. Behind the glass, the sun rose and fell, chased indefinitely by the pining moon. George was his sun, Clay thought, and he was the moon. He would forever chase the one he loved, never to unite— save the seconds at dawn and dusk. In his mind’s eye, he could picture George, bathed in the soft morning light, eyes bright and smiling. Pink dusted his cheeks, making them glitter with a gem-like appeal. Clay could see George’s hands reaching out to him, so real it felt he might be able to touch them if he tried. The image was too precious, though, to disrupt. As night fell, the colors would fade until George’s milky skin glowed a delicate lavender. Until his eyes held the stars, and his breath would curl in the cold.

Clay bit down on his tongue, willing the ache of longing to subside. He cast his eyes towards the cracked door. Hours had passed without him even noticing. Outside of the room, somewhere around the corner, a candle flickered softly. Training his ears, Clay could pick up the conversation being had;

“He’s not getting better, Will.” Niki was saying, her voice tinged with worry. “You can’t stay here forever, it’s not safe, and I won’t risk it.”

“Come on, Niki, you used to do much riskier things than harboring wanted men.” 

Clay heard the sound of a playful slap and Wilbur yelped. 

“That was a long time ago now, I’ve grown up— you should too.” 

“Where is the fun in that?” Wilbur asked. The words slipped off his tongue, which Clay suspected was the result of one too many glasses of wine. 

“Hush. You’ll wake the others.” Replied Niki. 

“You hush.” Snapped Wilbur, earning himself another smack. After a moment's thought, Wilbur began speaking again, his voice taut with drunken focus. “I think that he’s broken, Niki. Like, really broken.” 

“What do you mean?” Clay heard Niki sit down. 

“He’s changed. Clay used to be impenetrable, the strongest guy I knew. He never let anyone get to him, except maybe Nick. But since he came back, since he met that prince… George… God, you should have seen them together. I haven’t witnessed love like that since… well… you know.” 

A chair scraped against the floor. 

“Sally?” 

“Yes.”

“He’ll be okay, Will— you were.” Said Niki. 

“I don’t want to see him hurting as I did.” 

“I know.” 

Reproachfully, Clay tuned out the rest of their conversation. What did Wilbur know about how he felt? The man never talked about his past. For all he knew, Sally could have been some whore he met a month ago. Disgust welled in Clay’s chest— how  _ dare _ anyone compare George? George was totally unique. Everything about him was perfect, pristine. His friends didn’t understand anything. Using all of his strength, Clay lurched and placed his feet on the cold wooden floor. Even though the woolen socks and warm sweater, Clay could feel winter approaching. Grunting from the effort he stood and stumbled to the door, moving on his own for the first time since he had gotten to Niki’s. Clay shoved the door open and rounded on the kitchen table. Niki and Wilbur’s eyes went wide when they saw him— sweat dripped from his hair, and his pale skin was abnormally flushed. Fire raged behind his eyes as he spoke. 

“Don’t talk about him. Not like that.” Clay spat. 

“Oh, no, Clay, it’s not like that,” Niki said, she jumped up and reached towards Clay. “Come on, now, let’s go lay down.” 

“No. I won’t have you talking about me behind my back, Wilbur.” Despite his venomous words, Clay wobbled, sudden dizziness coming upon him. 

“Mate, you know I wouldn’t say anything bad—” Began Wilbur, but Clay interrupted him. 

“Shut  _ up _ and listen. Don’t ever compare George to some… Some half-baked slut you met and fell in love with, and you, Niki, you don’t even know us! Stop acting like you are a saint— you’re nothing but a lonely baker who did not dare to do something meaningful. You don’t know anything about our lives.” 

His words slurred together with delirium, but they still left Wilbur and Niki speechless. Clay didn’t care— he focused his rage on them, unleashing a hail of thorned attacks. Everything he had been keeping, deep inside, roared up and through his throat like magma, tearing at his stomach and bones. And it felt good. It felt good to finally say everything he had been thinking, to be able to shout and scream out the anger he felt towards everyone. At the end of his tirade, Wilbur’s face had gone blank and Niki looked to be on the verge of tears. Panting, Clay leaned against the wall; his legs felt like jelly. 

“Is that all?” Phil spoke softly, but his tone was strict. 

Clay nodded, his sweaty hand slipped against the pine boards, and he nearly collapsed, if not for strong arms which wrapped around his shoulders. 

“You go lay down. Sleep it off.” Said Phil, helping Clay back to his room. Clay dropped into bed, feeling more exhausted and empty than he ever had. From the doorway, Phil spoke once more. 

“Even though your world feels like hell, you do not get to make everyone else’s shit too. Niki has been nothing but kind to you, as have Wilbur and the others. See to it that you apologize in the morning.” Clay glared at Phil, prompting a heavy sigh. Phil softened, looking at the heartbroken husk wrapped below the sheets. “You’re not acting like the man George loves. What would he think of you?” 

With that, Phil left. His words left Clay stunned. George loved him? But they had never discussed that. How could Phil know? Clay also knew that Phil was right about the other things. Wilbur and Niki, and everyone else had done everything in their power to comfort him and help him heal. They did not deserve his cruelty. What would Geroge think of him at this moment? Surely he would be disgusted with Clay’s behavior. This thought made Clay’s ribs ache. Feeling enormously guilty, Clay vowed to apologize to everyone profusely in the morning. Through the window panes, he could see the stars swirling outside, but they no longer teased him. Now they winked, pitifully as if apologizing for their prior behavior. Slowly, they shined brighter, one after the other, until George’s beaming face lit up the sky. Basking in the enchanted light, Clay let his eyes fall closed. The invisible touch grew stronger as George materialized before him. His beloved, before him, again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hihihi
> 
> I hope you like this chapter and thank you for reading! I have been swamped in homework up to my ears (who knew), so if anyone else is stressed out about school work, I am so proud of you, wherever you stand. Much love to all of you, and I hope you have a delightful week. 
> 
> -clem <3


End file.
